


The more you ignore me, the closer I get

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, Angst, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Chaconne in d minor, Comeplay, Dark, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom John, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, I'm sorry for the silly case, John is having none of it, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary's but a walking shadow, Mycroft's Meddling, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Rape, Riding Crops, Rimming, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Sherlock is a Brat, Shower Sex, Spanking, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism, Wax Play, dubious declarations of love, graphic description of recreational drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 96,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes John really angry. John gets carried away. Very dubious consent but consent non the less. Mostly dark smut, but after certain obstacles are finally overcome, a fragile and sometimes messy relationship slowly evolves, that has both John and Sherlock on edge more than once. As they try to cope, they make grave mistakes and bitter confessions, leaving them both bruised and shattered. But it's all fine, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But it wouldn't work so I soak up your vice

**_But it wouldn't work so I soak up your vice_**

This got darker than I expected but will turn fluffy now and then.

I am overwhelmed by you all reading this, thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it. Comments are always appreciated.  


__________

It is quite unexpected when it happens for the first time. 

Sherlock had practically kidnapped John to help him work a case in the country and when John had returned home to his wife after a few days, without as much as calling her as Sherlock had deemed it to dangerous to give away their place of hiding, the Watsons had a massive domestic.

Mary did not only accuse her husband of utter neglect and irresponsibly childish behaviour for running after Sherlock fucking Holmes the minute he snapped his finger - she finally threw into John's face the one accusation he never could cope with: "You love him more than me!" Mary had screamed. 

John had just stared at her for a moment, taking everything in: her dishevelled hair, her swollen eyes, red from crying, her distorted mouth, uttering filthy accusations, spit flying form her mouth hitting his face, her enormous belly - being 30 weeks pregnant - hands, face and feet gone chubby with water...

Then he'd abruptly turned around and first left the room, than the house, running down the silent side street up to the main road where he hailed a cab.

He refused to think, listening instead to the long and fairly complicated story the driver told him about his family back in Bangladesh. When the taxi stopped in front of 221b Baker Street, John was so wound up that he just threw a few notes at the cabbie - ignoring his bewildered expression - and attacked the front door. 

As he no longer possessed a key, he had to use the knocker and did it very forcefully. Of course, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to answer the door, so poor old Mrs. Hudson had to open it in her nighty. She asked John what the matter was, him trying to kick in the door at nearly midnight but was cut short by her former lodger simply storming past her, inside and up the 17 steps to the flat he'd once occupied.

Remembering some of his manners, John shouted a few words of excuse down to her, being halfway up the stairs and then burst into the upstairs living room, where Sherlock stood with his back to the windows, watching John in surprise as he entered and slammed the door shut behind him.

"John, what an unexpected visit. We just parted an hour ago, I didn't anticipate to see you again this soon." Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised.

When hearing that posh mocking voice sounding so impassive, something inside John snapped. He rushed forward, barely giving Sherlock the chance to finish his sentence. Instead John grabbed him unceremoniously by the lapels of his black jacket and shoved him forcefully against the nearest bookshelf.

"You reduced my beautiful pregnant wife to a sobbing mess!" John shouted, his voice kept barely in check.

"Oh, did I?" Sherlock sounded quite aloof, despite being violently manhandled. "And I thought she would be much more disappointed by her husband abandoning her in favour of chasing after a thief in Sussex with his former flatmate than him attending their second ultrasound screening, probably seeing the baby for the first time properly. But what do I know about the bliss of married live?"

John let go of Sherlock, stepping back and eyeing the detective up and down.

"You knew about that appointment." It wasn't really a question.

"Of course I did." Sherlock replied coolly, meeting Johns gaze unfazed.

"And yet you lured me into following you on your little adventure."

"Yes." Just this one word.

"Why?",John demanded to know.

"You know very well why," Sherlock stated, still looking John straight in the eye. "You just don't want to acknowledge it."

"Oh, is that so? How would you know?"

"Because I know you, John Watson. I know who you are. I know what you crave. I know what you need."

John swallowed. He blinked. He tried to look away.

"Now, do you?"

Sherlock held his gaze unfaltering. His lips curled up in a predatory grin; he even had the nerve to provocatively cock one eyebrow. "Oh, yes, of course I do," he purred.

John's eyes narrowed. He felt white hot anger spark inside himself. This utter twat of a so-called friend was about to ruin his marriage - just for the fun of it. He couldn't have that. He had to show Sherlock his boundaries. There was only so far he could go. This decision reached, John felt a bit calmer; calm enough to take a step back and look Sherlock up and down again.

Sherlock still stood with his back against the bookcase, jacket and shirt slightly ruffled, eyes wide and dark, his pale cheeks flushed pink, wet rosy lips parted, watching John with a sneer.

Slowly John let a smile bloom on his face. Sherlock seemed to relax just a fraction, grinning knowingly, bowing his head down gracefully, until his face was but inches from John's.

John raised his hand as if to stroke Sherlocks cheek. But instead he grabbed a fistful of Sherlocks dark curls, pulling his head back brutally. Sherlock hissed, that salacious smile instantly wiped from his face.

"You have no idea what I want to do to you," John whispered, his voice low and stern. He yanked again at Sherlocks hair, straining his pale neck as he pulled his head back.

"John, that hurts," Sherlock complained.

"Does it? Good!"

Sherlock tried to pull John's hand out of his hair but John grabbed his wrist and twisted Sherlock around, pinning his arm high on his back. Sherlock stumbled forward and hit the bookcase with the right side of his face. His vision blurred. John jerked his wrist still higher up between his shoulderblades, straining his shoulder. Sherlock hissed in pain.

"Stop it, John! This isn't funny!" Sherlock heard panic creep into his voice.

"Do you hear me laughing?" John asked calmly.

Sherlock remembered the last time he had seen John really angry - the night he'd come back from the dead. John had hit him and even headbutted him - but that had felt different.

"Down on your knees!" John commanded, kicking Sherlock in the back of his knees, forcing him on the floor. With his free hand Sherlock tried to regain some leverage against the bookshelf, protecting his face from hitting it again. 

As his knees hit the floor he felt John kneeling down behind him. The hand in his hair was gone but John still held him firmly pressed against the bookcase. Sherlock could read the spines of the volumes nearest to his face ("Compendium of Forensic Science" , "The Trail of Rosemary West", "The Last to Hang") and tried to focus on them. He heard John fumble with his clothes and then his other hand was pulled behind his back. John bound his wrists with his belt at the small of his back, pulled him back from the bookcase and pushed his face down onto the floor.

"John, what..."

"Shut up, just shut up, or I'll make you."

Sherlock felt John's hands at the front of his trousers, opening his belt an pullling it out of the loops. Then he opened the button and his zip to pull Sherlock's trousers down to his knees.

"Count. And don't stop, or I swear you'll be sorry," John ordered, his voice dark and rough.

The belt hit Sherlock across his buttocks. It burned and Sherlock inhaled sharply.

"I can't hear you."

There was a strained silence.

"One."

"Good."

Reaching ten, Sherlocks bottom was bright red. Reaching twenty, tears streamed down his face. At 25, his voice was broken and merely audible.

"Beg me to stop!" John ordered.

"Please..."

"Please what?" John hit him again.

"Please!" Sherlock screamed, "please, touch me."

John's arm froze midair.

"You utter slut," he whispered. But he stopped.

John's hands stroked over the red welts that where blooming on Sherlock's white buttocks. He brought his face down and licked a wet stripe from high up Sherlock's thights, arcross one cheek all the way to the small of his back. Sherlock squirmed.

"God, Sherlock..." John took a deep breath, looking down at his work.

"John, please..." Sherlock whimpered.

"Shut up. You only talk when I say so."

Sherlock shivered.

John spread Sherlock's cheeks and licked over his cleft. Sherlock moaned.

"I said, shut up!"

John could hear Sherlock's ragged breathing. He let his mouth hoover just a few inches above Sherlocks puckered hole and gathered saliva. Then he let the cool spit drop down between Sherlock's cheeks. As the gob of liqiuid hit his entrance, Sherlock froze - then pushed his arse even higher up in the air.

"You really like that," John stated, feeling adrift but sounding not the least surprised. Sherlock didn't dare to answer.

"I'm going to fuck you now. But if you make any noise, I will stop immediately. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, his face still on the floor, his jaw grazing the carpet.

John opened his fly, pulled his trousers down to his knees and lined up behind Sherlock. His cock was straining. He let it brush Sherlock's hole once, coating it with his precome, before pushing in firmly.

Sherlock spasmed. It hurt. It hurt like hell. He pressed his lips together as not to cry out in pain and squinted his eyes shut to hold back the tears that burned hot behind his eyelids.  


John did not falter, nor slowed he down until he was buried to the hilt in Sherlock's arse. He looked down and watched as his massive cock breached Sherlock's rim and sank into him until his hips hit Sherlock's still red buttocks. Then he briefly paused to dwell on the sensation. God, Sherlock was so tight! The friction was just glorious.

After a few moments John started to move, nearly pulling fully out before pushing in again. Sherlock's knees gave out.

"Up!" John ordered and Sherlock pushed his arse up again by sheer willpower, meeting John's thrust. John groaned in the back of his throat.

"God, you are but a cockslut. Jesus, Sherlock... come on, take it!" And he slammed in deep again. John gripped Sherlock's slim hips with both hands and started to fuck him in earnest, building up a steady rhythm. Sherlock pushed back as good as he could without his knees and legs giving out and slowly the pain gave way to something much sweeter. All his being shrank down to feeling John buggering him forcefully. Sherlock felt their sweat tingle down their joined bodies, savoured John's groans, felt his bollocks slapping against his perineum with every thrust.

His whole world had become a hard cock plunging into his body. Nothing else mattered, nothing existed outside this room filled with tormenting raging pain and carnal fucking. Sherlock smelled Johns musky scent, felt his own prick throb and bit his lower lip so as not to moan and demand more, faster, harder.

Suddenly, John stilled for a moment - and then his thrusts became erratic, pounding relentlessly into Sherlock, until he let out a sharp cry and Sherlock felt him spill his load inside his arse.

John collapsed over his back, still covered with his now clingy sweaty shirt. John lay still for a moment and then pulled out in one quick move. He loosened the belt around Sherlocks wrists and Sherlock fell onto his side, panting heavily, his untouched cock twitching uncomfortably hard against his belly. His whole body hurt; he couldn't think of anything else but coming as John's cum dribbled out of his misused hole.

John pulled his trousers up and fastened his belt without as much as looking at Sherlock, who had his eyes closed and his lips pressed tightly shut. He thought John might just leave him lying there on the floor forever but suddenly he felt John bending down over him, stroking his damp black curls out of his face and pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

"That was so hot," John mumbled. And then he was gone. Sherlock heard the door to the flat pulled shut; John stumbled down the stairs; afterwards the door onto the street closes with a low thud.

Sherlock lay on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, feeling pain searing through his body. When he could be sure not to pass out, he brought one hand to his aking cock; it took only a few frenzied strokes before he came all over his fist, stomach and chest.

Only then Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to cry, sucking cum off his own fingers.


	2. Please, please, please, let me get what I want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to come to terms with what happened. Got a bit angsty...

Sherlock must have fallen asleep on the floor. He can't remember. When he gets kind of conscious again, grey light streams through the windows, so it must be early morning.

His whole body hurts. The flat is cold and he feels stiff and sore. He just lies there, watching the light change as the sun comes up. Dust dances in sunbeams and outside, London awakes.

He can't move. He just wants to lie there forever, on his sitting room floor, without thinking, watching time passing by.

But eventually he gets up - it takes some time and he can't walk upright - and takes a bath. He is filthy, dried cum on his flat stomach, mingled with dried blood between his buttocks. He stares at the ceiling, chainsmoking - no one around to complain - still trying not to think about what happened last night. The unfortunate thing when you are Sherlock Holmes is that it is very hard to deal with events like this. Emotions, feelings, sentiment - he can't process it. It just went too deep.

Old habits die hard. Sherlock has but one way to deal with the rising turmoil inside himself. Smack just quiets everything. Makes him numb. He lies in bed without sleeping. He doesn't eat, never even feels hungry. He just drifts. Sherlock has always been prone to addiction.

One day he comes round lying on the bathroom floor, the needle still stuck in his arm. He doesn't know where he is, nor how he got there. His vision is kind of blurred. He feels strangely off kilter. It doesn't hurt, he feels no pain at all. He just wants to lie on the cold tiles, never getting up again. He wonders why he is still alive and breathing. What is the point of it, anyway?

Of course, finally, he does get up, crawls into his bedroom on his hands and knees and curls up on his bed in a foetal position, pulling up his thighs against his ribcage, shivering. When he wakes again, it's dark outside. Cold sweat trickles down his spine, muscles cramp and his wrists and ankles itch. He gets up, swaying just a little. He needs a few attempts to hit the right spot but after shooting up he finds oblivion rather quickly, nearly passing out again on the couch.

Days seem inseparable. He doesn't even try to keep up appearance. He's not entirely sure if he wants to die but going on living doesn't hold much appeal either.

He is so tired. For almost his entire life, Sherlock Holmes had embraced the idea that he was different, that he was able to detach himself from these pedestrian attitudes towards other people, that he did not have to feel the burden of caring.

Now, his despair hits him full force.

Of course, Mrs. Hudson is the first to recognise. She tries to comfort Sherlock but he simply refuses to acknowledge her fussing.

As Mycroft tries to talk sense into him, Sherlock retreats to his bedroom, locking himself in there rather dramatically, refusing to speak to his brother.

When Lestrade texts him, offering a case, he does not reply.

So all three of them turn to John as their last resort and hope.

Of course, Sherlock knows what's going on - he is not that spaced out. But he can't face John. That is totally and absolutely out of the question.

________________________________

Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa, high as a kite and really not very sure if this is actually happening. He might just imagine John standing there.

But John steps in closer, looking down at him. Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut. "Go away," he mumbles.

John simply looks at him. "Sherlock..." he sighs.

"Just. Go. Away."

"What have you done?" John sounds... worried? Shocked? Frightened?

"Piss off, John!"

John pinches his nose. "You know, people called me. There are actually people who are quite concerned about you."

"For god's sake, I am perfectly capable to take care of this myself."

"Sure you are."  
______________  


Whatever people might think, Sherlock is definately not a virgin. He has had random sexual encounters but they had been uneventful, dull, not worth memorising. He knows how people respond to his unusual looks and has learned to exploit this. If you want to keep up an expensive habit, it literally pays off to be aware of things like these. Well, he did not actually sell himself but if there had been an interested party offering money, who was he to argue?  
He had never been squeamish. He knows how it feels to get fucked. He can repress his gag reflex to please. He doesn't mind being used. He quite likes it rough.

But it's different with John. He is not a stranger he never has to meet again. Sherlock once thought John the closest thing to a friend he might ever have. That's why he minds.  
___________

John drags him up from the sofa, pushes him down on his knees. Sherlock, despite his drowsiness, tries to reason with him but to no avail.

"John, what...?"

He is cut short. John presses Sherlock's face into his groin, holds him there tightly.

"Do as you are told." John's voice is stern and unrelenting. "Open!"

And Sherlock does. John unzips his fly and shoves his hard cock down Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock splutters and chokes as he adjusts but John orders him to suck and he does as he is told. He hollows his cheeks and John fucks his mouth, his left hand tangled in Sherlock's hair at the back of his neck, unrelenting, keeping Sherlock's head firmly where he wants it.

Sherlock is aware that he is drooling, spit dripping down his chin. Aware of making desperate noises. Oh, but how he wants this. It is so simple - carnal satisfaction.

When John comes down his throat, he feels utterly content.

John releases his hair and looks down at him. Sherlock's lips are swollen, come and saliva dripping down his chin onto his t-shirt.

"Open your mouth, show me!" John demands and Sherlock obeys. "God, look at you."

Seeing his come on Sherlock's tongue, John bows down and kisses him deep, tasting himself in Sherlock's mouth. It is wet and messy, their lips and tongues sliding ecstatically against each other and it just feels incredible.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John huffs, cupping his face in his hands.

"I'll do anything, anything you want," Sherlock whispers and John knows it's the truth, that he can take anything he wants from Sherlock, who would agree to everything.

"Let me watch you touch yourself."

Sherlock just wears pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. Still kneeling on the floor, he pulls down his slacks and John can see his beautiful cock, hard, curved upwards and leaking precome.

John lowers himself on the sofa and watches entranced as Sherlock's long pale fingers tighten around the shaft and start stroking.

His eyes flutter shut but John wants nothing of that.

"Look at me!" he orders and Sherlock's eyes snap open again, pupils blown wide and he watches John watching him jerking off.

John is mesmerised - Sherlock's eyes are so wide, his pale neck stretches obscenely long - John has to reach out, stroking Sherlock's white collarbones just with his fingertips. As Sherlock's hand speeds up, John's fingers tighten around his throat, constricting Sherlock's breathing.

"Come, just come," John demands and Sherlock does, spurting over his fingers and abdomen, kneeling in front of John. While Sherlock is still shuddering, John pulls him close, taking two of his fingers into his own mouth, sucking hard, looking Sherlock in the eye while licking come from his fingers.

"Jesus, you are so beautiful like this," John whispers.

"Don't do this, John." Sherlock sounds abruptly much too sober. "I can't give you what you want."

"How do you think you know what I want?" John asks, his voice much rougher than usual.

"As I told you before, I know you. You are a romantic. But I must beg you not to love me."

"I thought you never beg."

"Don't be preposterous. I am trying to have a serious conversation between adults here."

"Consenting adults."

"What...?"

"Oh Sherlock, I'm sure you have absolutely no idea what I want to do to you." A dangerous smirk spreads over John's face.

Sherlock just stares at him, wide-eyed and - if he is but honest with himself for once - very turned on.


	3. Experiment in Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks about the situation, then comes up with a plan.

Once can be written off as an accident but twice is a pattern. Proving this, however, would require putting the assumption to a test.  


As a man of scientific inclinations, Sherlock is prepared to take the risk.

He sets about it in his usual meticulous way. Of course, there has to be the element of surprise to be considered. The first two incidents were initiated by John and Sherlock, to his own astonishment, participated very willingly and to both their satisfaction. So there's another template he can follow up. As much as he likes to show off his superior abilities in almost any other field, he's quite content to give John the upper hand in this matter.

Sherlock does not think of himself as a sub. He had been tied up and fucked on numerous occasions before but he had never particularly enjoyed the experience of being taken by force. Could it be that it actually mattered who did it?

Nor had Sherlock perceived John as especially dominant. Well, he had been a Captain in the British army but Sherlock hadn't known him then. When they'd met, John very quickly became his Boswell, the one who admired Sherlock and followed him loyally and without asking too many questions, always allowing for Sherlock to lead. Or had he?

As the two previous meetings occurred in Baker Street, Sherlock tries to figure out a scenario in which John is forced to return to his old digs yet another time and then, well...

It has to be something a little bit dramatic, to allow John's otherwise bottled up desires to break free. But nothing that would get Sherlock hospitalized. That would have effects contrary to those intended.

Neither could Sherlock severely damage the flat; that would just leave him evicted and on the streets and Sherlock very much doubts that John would happily offer his new family home to accommodate Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock comes round to the conclusion that he should ask John's assistance on the subject that had brought them together in the first place; he needs a case. But not just any case, it has to be at least a nine, something gruesome and twisted, with a strong sexual undercurrent if possible.

But to be permitted to work cases for NSY again, he has to sober up. Lestrade had been quite clear on this: if he ever turned up again inebriated at a crime scene, he would have Sherlock arrested and not even his brother would be able to save him from prosecution this time. Sherlock doubted that Mycroft would want to, anyway.  


That decision made, Sherlock abstains form cocaine and heroin, forces himself to sleep 8 hours straight for a few nights, chokes down high protein food (chips) to gain some weight back, showers, gets dressed in a black suit and dress shirt - and waits.

He knows something will come up eventually. Contrary to Donovans believe, Sherlock has no intentions to fabricate his own crime scenes. Where would be the fun in that?

He tries to be patient. As Sherlock has deprived himself of all the things that could cure his boredom when not on a case, he's lucky that he hasn't have to wait more than a few days. Otherwise his new found sobriety might have faltered.

One Wednesday morning he is summoned to the Yard. Lestrade desperatedly needs help with an extremely vicious serial murder case: so far, there had been two victims, young women, who where whipped and tortured a few days prior to their deaths, which occurred by manual strangulation. Post-mortem they where cut open from sternum to pubic bone, the inner organs draped around them at the sites where their bodies were found - two rundown housing estates in the East End. Of course, the press is all over the place, screaming about a "New Ripper", each and every tabloid further exaggerating the already gory details.

To Sherlock, this case is exactly what he had been looking for. Christmas! He points out some of his observations right there in Lestrades office:  
"You are looking for a white man in his mid-twenties, about 5 ft. 8 in height, with no previous convictions, a steady job, a house owner in the country but within one hour driving distance from the East End. He drives a small van and works in a medical profession. He thinks himself a sadist but the killings are not sexually motivated. The killer might even be homosexual. He is at least of average intelligence, interested in history, and lives alone in a converted barn or farmsted."

"Sherlock, if you are making this up..." Lestrade sighs.

"Oh, Detective Inspector, excuse me for not taking into account your incapacity of thinking through the facts your experts have provided you with: the victims are white and 21 and 23 respectively. Statistically, serial killers tend to look for victims in their own peer group, regarding age and ethnicity. The women are 5 ft. 3 and 5 ft. 5. Again, the killer likely chooses someone who is not so different from his own appearance but he will be a bit taller. You can conclude that from the ligature marks his fingers left around the throats as he choked them. He keeps the women captive for a few days, beats and otherwise torments them. Do you think they stay silent during that? No, they'll scream. So it's very unlikely that he shares his home with anyone or lives in a densely populated area, otherwise someone would have complained about the noise - people tend to. Then he cuts them up quite professionally. You can't do that in a flat, you need space and equipment - so, he owns a house in the country. To do so, even in the vicinity of London, you have to have a stable recognisable income. The way he goes about the disembowling suggests knowledge - so, medical profession, perhaps a nurse..."

"Why not a butcher?" Donovan intersects.

Sherlock looks at her as if he sees her for the first time, arches an eyebrow and sneers: "Did you not dissect frogs at your comprehensive? You are aware that the human body is very different from, say, a pig or a cow? No hoofs, for example? That's why it is a big difference from knowing how to chop a lamp to expertly gut a human body."

Donovan looks as if the milk in her cuppa had suddenly turned sour.

"So, where was I? Ah, yes, probably a nurse, or funeral aidee, not a doctor, they can torment their patients enough at work and therefore have no heightened need to continue this in private. To work in such a profession, the murderer needs qualifications and can't sport a criminal record. Also it is very unlikely that he lives more than an hour's drive away from the sites the bodies were found, because otherwise the bodyparts would show signs of being exposed longer. Besides, the farther he lives away, the longer the journey and therefor higher the risk of being caught in an accident or traffic control while driving around with a very messy corpse. Finally, his fascination with history manifests itself in his desire to fob press and police with a kind of reenactment of the Ripper killings."

Sherlock glances expectantly and a little annoyed at the gathered police officers.

It seems that Donovan has not had enough: "But of course, the killings must be sexually motivated. You said yourself, it's a man, and as he kills women... well.. He chains them, locks them up, tortures and then strangles them with his bare hands..."

"No trace evidence." Sherlock snaps icily, rolling his eyes.

"What?"

"To put it plain for you to understand: no semen. Not inside their vaginas, not on their skin, not in their hair. Nowhere! Not even signs of intercourse, forced or otherwise. Neither before death occurred, nor afterwards."

Donovan looks as if she's about to throw up.

"You are sick!" she mutters.

"Excuse me, I am not the one slicing these women up. I am just pointing out some basic conclusions, that even you could have reached on your own if you would, just now and than, go to the trouble of actually thinking and observing."

"Enough, Sherlock!" Lestrade intervenes. "It's true, we need your help here desperately but that doesn't give you the right to insult my team."

Sherlock is about to reply to that but Lestrade cuts him short with an impatient gesture.

"Where's John, by the way? He seems to be the only one who can keep you in check."

"He's ... busy," Sherlock condescends vaguely.

Donovan smirks into her paper cup. Sherlock glares at her in open defiance.

"We will meet tonight to discuss this case," he states coolly, grabbing the files from Lestrade's desk and sweeping past the detectives to leave the office. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Yeah, do that. And thanks for your input."

"Pleasure!" With that said, Sherlock is gone.  
_________________________  
  
_\- I need you. - SH_  
\- _John, I said I need you! - SH_  
\- _John, are you deliberately obtuse? I need you. It's for a case. For god's sake... - SH_  
\- I really don't think that's a good idea. - JW  
\- _Honestly, John! - SH_  
\- Oh, stop it. - JW  
- _Two women are dead. I really need you. - SH_  
- _John, please! - SH_  
\- I come round after work. - JW 

___________________________________

Sherlock prepares himself thoroughly. He showers (scrubs himself very clean, to be honest), then dresses in his purple shirt and a slim black suit. When John arrives, Sherlock is standing in front of the fire place. Their eyes meet in the mirror before Sherlock turns to face John.

"So, here I am." John states awkwardly.

"Yes, here you are."

The silence stretches, not so much uncomfortable as heavily loaded with subtle unspoken messages.

Sherlock watches John, licking his lips. John avoids looking directly at him. Instead he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs and asks slightly exasperated: "How can I help you?"

Sherlock holds his gaze and stays quiet just a moment longer before he starts to unravel the case. He does not hold back. In fact, he does show off absolutely unashamed.

John seems genuinely impressed.

When Sherlock finishes reeling off his deductions, John asks: "Ok, but why did the killer choose these women?"

"Excellent question, John. Look at the photographs. What do you see?"

John has seen many violent deaths, so he doesn't shy away from the pictures displaying the naked bodies, now reduced to empty gaping carcasses, their internal organs draped around their shoulders like a bloody plaid.

"They are not realy ginger," John declares.

"Sorry?" Sherlock replies, rather surprised.

"Look at them. The hair on their heads is bright ginger, but their pubic hair is ... dark."

"Oh. And this means...?"

"Well, they obviously both dyed their hair an alarming shade of red."

Sherlock looks at John, enthralled. He blinks several times, processing the new information. He hadn't recognised the fact that both women changed their natural hair colour. Sherlock sifts through the photos again. What is he missing?

"John, how long does it take for artificially coloured hair to grow out?"

John thinks of his wife, who is bottle-blond herself.

"Well, in my experience, you can see it rather quickly on the hairline."

"And yet, these women are perfectly groomed, despite being held captive for several days. Which means..."

"... the killer dyed their hair ginger." John finishes the sentence. "But, why?"

"Again, an excellent question. As the murders lack any sexual element, I rather expect a personal trauma experienced by the killer, inflicted by a red haired woman, presumably his mother. I will consult with Lestrade tomorrow."

They both fall silent again.

John is the first to speak again. "If there's nothing else..." He doesn't finish his sentence.

"Your input has been vital, as always." Sherlock retorts a bit too fast.

John is not used to this kind of praise, so he furrows his brow in astonishment.

"Well, I'm off then..." he announces, letting the words hang in the air, more a question than a statement.

Sherlock steps into his personal space with two determined strides. "Do you have to?" he asks softly, casting down his eyes, bowing his head slightly. John looks up at him, meeting his gaze.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" he asks, his voice stern, bordering on angry.

"You know perfectly well what I want." Sherlock murmurs.

"I want to hear you say it."

"Stay." Sherlock raises his eyes to John's, as if to pin him to the spot with a piercing look.

It's out in the open now, cards on the table.

"I am married, Sherlock."

"I don't mind."

"But I do!"

"Sure?"

John looks down for a moment, then raises his head to look Sherlock firmly in the eye. His breath catches in his throat. Sherlock's pupils are blown wide and dark, his cheeks flushed a delicate pink, rosy lips slightly parted.

"Don't do this, Sherlock." John nearly pleads. "You don't know what you are getting yourself into."

When Sherlock speaks again, his voice is hoarse: "I told you I need you. I meant it. Anything you want, John."

John lets these word sink in. He looks around, then back at Sherlock's lean frame and pale face, offering himself. There is, honestly, not really a decision to be made.

"I want you naked, kneeling beside your bed. You have five minutes."


	4. Does the body rule the mind?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simply pwp!  
> _____________

_... or does the mind rule the body?_

Sherlock nearly bolted for his room. John stayed behind, taking an almost clean glass from a kitchen cupboard, filling it from a bottle of Macallan - a present from a grateful client - hidden on a shelf behind the Weetabix.

Passing through the corridor that led to Sherlock's room, John took the soft dark blue scarf from the coat hanger.

The sight he encountered as he entered Sherlock's bedroom pleased him. Sherlock knelt beside his bed as ordered, naked, head gracefully bowed down, eyes cast onto the floor. His dark fringe fell over his eyes as his long black eyelashes fanned out against his pale face.

His heels were tucked under his buttocks, his long slim fingers resting on his thighs. His white skin gleamed in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from the orange glow streaming in from the streetlights outside.

John set his glass down on the bedside cabinet and put the scarf on Sherlock's bed. Then he circled the man. He heard Sherlock's breath hitch as he stepped close behind him, gazing down at him. John knew Sherlock kept old church candles on his chest of drawers, and lit them with matches he found nearby (bit more romantic, he fleetingly thought, remembering their first dinner at Angelo's).

He turned around and stood behind Sherlock again, who slightly shivered but not from the chill. John took a deep breath, inhaling the lingering smell of sex and arousal. Sherlock was already hard, his cock straining against his flat stomach, the glans exposed and glistening wet.

John very tenderly ran his left hand through Sherlock's black curls, down the nape of his neck, resting it on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch. John stood so close he knew Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from his still fully clothed body.

"You are gorgeous," John whispered, taking Sherlock's scarf from the bed, tying it tightly over Sherlock's eyes, blindfolding him.

That done, John walked back to the bed again and took a sip of his whisky, admiring the beautiful creatue kneeling submissively in front of him.

"Where do you keep that riding crop of yours?/p>

"Top drawer." Sherlock answered immediately, his voice only a little bit shaky.

As John retrieved the rod he was pleased to notice that it was made of black leather, quite the real thing, not some innocuous sex toy. He traced the soft tongue on its end lightly over Sherlock's back, watching his muscles twich in anticipation. John moved in front of Sherlock again, grazing the tip of the crop over Sherlock's shoulder and down his collarbone and sternum and back up again.

John took the hard rod in his two hands and pushed Sherlock's chin up until his face was turned towards the ceiling, exposing his throat with its bopping Adam's apple. John just stood there, relishing the control he had over Sherlock in this moment, crouched down in front of him him, exposed and utterly vulnerable.

Sherlock hissed at the first firm stroke of the crop across his chest. It left a red mark on his pale flesh. 

"Beg me!" John said, voice hard and unyielding.

"Please, John..." it was barely audible.

"I can't hear you."

"Please, John!" this time Sherlock's deep voice sounded firmer. "Please, I need it. Hit me."

And John did. First, he laid a crisscrossed pattern over Sherlock's chest before moving around to pay attention to his back. Sherlock arched and squirmed but never once tried to dodge a blow. Only when his back was covered in red welts, some cracked open and bleeding, did John stop.

Sherlock's hair was dripping with sweat, his face and chest flushed delicately pink. His breath came out in ragged sobs while his cock looked painfully hard, leaking precome on his belly and over his shaft and bollocks.

"You look so fucking hot, I could eat you alive." John huffed, running his thump over Sherlock's wet lower lip, eliciting a needy whimper in response. "Spread your legs for me."

Still kneeling, Sherlock did as he was told. John let the tongue of the riding crop encircle Sherlock's glans, gliding up and down his wet cock a few times before gently nudging at his balls and pushing behind them, caressing his perineum. Sherlock moaned desperately and started to rock back and forth, seeking friciton.

"Jesus, look at you." John whispered, his voice low and dark.

When John placed the first blow against Sherlock's inner thigh, Sherlock nearly toppled over.

"Stay up!" Johns voice was unrelenting, adopting his no-nonsense Captain's tone.

Sherlock tried hard not to keel over while John was administering forceful little strokes against tender skin, marking Sherlock's strained body still further.  


But there's only so much one can take. Finally, Sherlock sobbed: "Stop, John, please, stop, I - I am..."  
John stilled, scrutinising Sherlock. His body was slick with sweat, cock bobbing between his spread legs, hands balled into fists as not to touch himself. John's arm hurt and his trousers felt much too tight. But Sherlock's ordeal wasn't nearly finished.

John took another swig of whisky, giving Sherlock time to calm down a bit. He even bowed down and kissed Sherlock, demanding, messy and open-mouthed. Sherlock arched into the tender touch. The kiss became very heated very quickly; John drew back, whispering: "Patience."

Sherlock panted but tried to control his breathing and keep his arousal in check.

"You look positively debauched," John hummed, allowing an affectionate smile to linger in his voice.

Sherlock bowed his head and let the praise wash over him. He felt very calm and content and actually enjoyed giving up his control entirely to John - John, who would take care of him, who knew exactly what he needed to shut down that big brain of his, to just feel and be and exist in the moment. It was a rare sensation to Sherlock and therefore one he cherished gratefully.

After a few moments of tranquility, however, Sherlock heard John move behind him. As the first drops of hot wax hit his back, he hissed and tried to turn away, twisting his upper body. John very quietly said "Don't move!", sounding entranced. Sherlock struggled not to flinch but to endure the pain as the scalding liquid was again poured over his abused back.

After a while John moved to his front; Sherlock could still feel the heat of the burning candle. "Lean back a little," John ordered quietly and Sherlock obeyed, placing his palms flat on the flow at either side of his feet, throwing his head back, offering himself up to John. Sherlock held his breath in anticipation. 

As John poured hot wax over his nipples, his stomach, and, finally, his cock. Sherlock gasped in agony, all the while experiencing the transcendent quality of this randomly inflicted intense pain. He floated, dissociation kicking in. He actually had a proper out of body experience, gazing down at his ruined body being tortured, listening to the desperate wailing sounds he made but was far beyond caring.

Evenutally John looked appraisingly down at his work. Sherlock's body was marked with red welts, covered in white candle wax. His hard cock was nearly purple. Low moans escaped his parted lips. He was broken. He was ready.

"Bow down," John said softly, guiding Sherlock carefully to the ground until his face touched the floor as he braced his weight on his folded arms while his arse was raised up in the air.

"Gorgeous," John murmured and then dived down between Sherlock's cheeks, licking and sucking at his hole.

Sherlock was overwhelmed. He could handle the pain but was utterly helpless in dealing with John's tenderly administered caresses and the pleasures they initiated. 

"John, please, fuck me," Sherlock demanded, despite knowing that he might not be in the position to utter such a proposal.

But John was nearly as far gone as Sherlock was, holding Sherlock in place, spreading his cheeks even wider, pushing his tongue inside Sherlock's tight hole while squirming in his trousers.

As a response John just yanked Sherlock's torso up at his sweat-slick shoulders and manhandled him onto the bed, thus providing better leverage. After arranging Sherlock's long limbs to his liking John continued his administration, positively tongue-fucking Sherlock until his hole was slick with spit. John suddenly couldn't hold on any longer, he opened his fly and got his cock out, not even pausing to smear precum over Sherlock's pucker before firmly pressing in.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and tried to relax until John was fully inside him. It felt incredible. When fully seated, John stilled for a moment before reaching around and underneath to grab Sherlock's aching cock, stroking it rough and fast.

Sherlock shuddered but tried to keep his approaching orgasm at bay. Unfortunately, John possessed very talented hands. When his cock hit Sherlock's prostate, he was lost, coming, shuddering uncontrollably. Afterwards, Sherlock felt raw and exposed, drifting, until John tightened his grip on his hips to pound into him forcefully and without retraint. As John came he pressed kisses between Sherlock's protruding shoulderblades.

Sherlock nearly passed out when feeling John coming inside him. His vision went fuzzy round the edges as he felt his spent cock stirr again. Afterwards, it took him a few minutes to adjust his mind as well as his view. Coming online again, he registered John lying beside him, panting heavily.

"God, Sherlock, I love you." John whispered against his temple, pressing a soft kiss there.

"Don't..." Sherlock pleaded, his voice rough, as he tried to wriggle away to bring some distance between their hot, damp bodies.

They lay there, side by side on Sherlock's bed, starring at the ceiling, so close and yet so lost, utterly fucked in every sense of the word.


	5. Sorrow's Native Son Will Not Smile for Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, there has to be some talking.

Sherlock should have been satisfied. He should have felt content. He got what he'd craved, didn't he?

Then why was he feeling so utterly... empty?

Stop thinking, he told himself. Stop longing and dreaming and fantasising about things that will never happen! Keep your distance, don't get involved, stay well clear of sentiment. It's entirely pedestrian and mundane.

John had tried to pull him close, afterwards, to hold him and comfort him but Sherlock wasn't having any of this. He'd climbed out of bed, his legs nearly giving out but had made it to the bath room somehow. There he'd locked himself in, starring wideeyed at his reflection in the mirror. 

He nearly didn't recognise the flushed, bruised and marked... thing... he saw as there. 

What had he done? What had he been thinking? That he could get John back by offering something he couldn't and certainly wouldn't experience with that lovely little wife of his? God, when exactly had he become that naive? John would never leave Mary, no matter what kind of kinky proposals Sherlock was willing to offer.

Sherlock had told John he didn't mind. He mustn't mind. He had no right to demand anything from John. He should feel consecrated by whatever John was prepared to give him. Love was a dangerous disadvantage, after all, and Sherlock was pretty sure he'd once again been reminded of this fact rather harshly.

He tore his eyes away from his sight in the mirror and stepped into the bathtub, pulling the curtain, opening the tabs. He felt the pleasant relaxation of muscles as the hot spray hit his back, drowning out the pain, washing away the residue of their actions earlier, easing some of the tension he'd been experiencing.

He had no idea how long he just stood under the scalding water but when it finally turned cold, he turned it off and dried himself, carefully avoiding looking at his reflection in the mirror.

He hoped John would have left by now. But he was unwilling to tiptoe around in his own flat, so he grabbed his dressing gown from a hook on the bathroom door and opened the door leading into the kitchen.

Sherlock stood and listened. He was fairly certain John was gone, equally unwilling to meet Sherlock after their... encounter. Silently, Sherlock went into the dark front room, retrieved his violin from the case and started playing Bach's Chaconne in D minor. As the first erratic scratches filled the flat, Sherlock relished the timid beauty of the music that, despite its precise structur, nevertheless expressed perfectly his inner turmoil.

When he finally put down the bow and turned around, he nearly jumped finding John sitting in his chair, just watching him.

"That sounded quite sad."

"It's written in minor, of course it sounds sad. That's its purpose."

"And yet it's very beautiful." John fixed Sherlock with his stare.

"The two features don't have to be separated. In fact, there is often great beauty derived from deep sadness."

They held each others gaze for a long time, neither of them knowing what to say but unwilling to break eyecontact nonetheless.

Eventually Sherlock asked: "Why are you still here. Don't you want to go home?"

Something crossed John's face but Sherlock was unable to interpret it.

"You want me gone?" John's tone wavered between a question and stating the obvious.

"Honestly, John, spare me the sentiment. And the talking. We both got what we wanted. There's no need to make allowances for socially accepted notions of conduct after sexual intercourse. In fact, I would feel very much offended if you thought I expected this from you. You know me, I regard my bodily needs as mere plights, and despite being grateful to you for tending to my distressing needs, I'm neither willing nor equipped to deal with the romantic outfall afterwards." Sherlock made his voice turn icy, arching one eyebrow mockingly as he felt something inside him clench up.

But John was having none of that.

"Oh, you think you can still hide behind your frumpy sarcasm? I have seen you come completely undone not an hour ago, Sherlock Holmes, so, for fuck's sake, spare me this put on show of faked detachment with you being all sublime and what have you!" John had been calm but by the end of his sentence he raised his voice and nearly shouted.

Sherlock felt slightly taken aback. Usually, his tactics worked quite well but perhaps he had made the mistake of letting John too close, underestimating the impact their intense encounters had on their... what... acquaintance? Friendship? Relationship?

Time to come clear, then. Offence being the best defence, Sherlock plunged into it without hesitation: "What do you expect of me, John? Declaring my everlasting love for you, demanding you leave your wife to live with me happily ever after? I am a high functioning sociopath, for god's sake, I don't do relationships! I just take what I need, regardless of the consequences, and I certainly have no inclination of spending the rest of my life chained to someone as mediocre as you, despite the fact that I must admit you possess certain talents which I can imagine putting to good use in the future, at least now and then, if it wouldn't mean to be forced to cope with these tedious reflections on the state of our..."

But he couldn't finish his rant. John was up on his feet, stepping into Sherlock's personal space quite purposefully, grabbing his thin right wrist with one hand, huffing "Shut up!", while bringing his other hand to Sherlock's nape, tugging him into a deep, passionate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to Isaac Stern playing Bach's Chaconne in D minor here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zvRWFD_1_M


	6. I want the one I can't have, and it's driving me mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes brutal honesty achieves eliciting the truth. Precarious confessions ensue...

Sherlock's mind signalled OVERLOAD in bright red letters. He didn't comprehend.

As John released him, all he could come up with was a rather sheepish "What...?" He felt completely deflated, all put on bravado knocked out of him.

"So," John stated matter-of-factly, "will you now, for once, just listen to me, genius?"

Sherlock was - quite unfamiliar - at a loss of words; he only shrugged, watching John ambiguously, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed.

"I never said I wanted what other people would call a _relationship_ with you. We never had that, anyway, and to be honest, you are mad as a hatter and I'm not really easy to handle at my best of times, too. Perhaps that's why we get on so well?"

Sherlock gaped at John kind of dumbstruck.

"And let's not forget that I'm married. I will become a father soon, Mary and me will have a proper little family." 

Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat. If John was to carry on like this, Sherlock was about to vomit on his living room floor just to shut him up.

"If I thought we could be together like this," John waved his hand between the two of them, "don't you think I would have made a pass on you ages ago?"

Yes, he would definitely be sick any minute now, Sherlock thought.

"I honestly think that we would kill each other before the end of the first week. This... whatever it is we have... it burns to bright to be healthy. Or lasting. Jesus, Sherlock..."

But Sherlock was not staying, listening to the unwelcome truths John felt compelled to confront him with. He stormed past John, only reaching the kitchen sink just in time, throwing up while his whole body spasmd helplessly.

John was left standing in the middle of the living room, slightly bewildered in the face of Sherlock's acute physical reaction. Ackwardly, he stepped into the kitchen, waiting for Sherlock to calm down a bit. When the man stopped retching, John took a glas from the cupboard and handed it to Sherlock, who took it without looking up, filled it with cold water from the tab and gulped it down in one go.

"Better?" John asked.

"Not really." Sherlock replied quietly, his voice raw and strained.

"Always the drama queen!" John huffed exasperated. "Can't you see what I mean? How is this suppose to work? I can't even talk to you like an adult. You just get hysteric." John was visibly agitated now and had raised his voice, nearly shouting his last words.

"Oh, and that's surprising to you?" Sherlock retorted acidly. "You just called me insane and unable to relate to anyone while on the other hand emphasizing your domestic bliss! How am I supposed to react to such revelations? Shall I silently withdraw, leaving you to get on with your _boring_ pedestrian life? Would that be responsible behaviour?" Sherlock suddenly felt hot white anger rise inside himself. His eyes were blazing, his body trembling in a fit of righteous fury. "You killed for me, John. I died for you. We belong together, bound by forces way beyond our control. Don't deny it, I know you do feel it too. What we did this evening and the other times, it means that we know each other down to the very core of our being. We trust each other with our lives. For god's sake, you were the one who told me he loved me not one hour ago. I don't know if that's the way love feels - as you pointed out so very delicately, I am not an expert in this particular area - but I can't believe that you are willing to forgo all this just to please common attitueds towards so-called healthy relationships!"

John stared at Sherlock open-mouthed for what felt like a whole minute. Then slowly a real smile started to spread over his face, right up to his dark blue eyes.  
Sherlock was again at a loss. What the hell was going on?

"So, finally, we reached some common ground. Good. Excellent." John still smiled rather exhilaratedly. "I am nearly tempted to kiss you, but, well... you just brought up my come again and there is only so far one could go, but if you could be arsed to clean yourself up a bit I might be amenable."

"I... I don't understand. John... what is happening here?" Sherlock stuttered, being at his wits' end.

"Two can play this game, Sherlock. I have watched you many times provoking people with your blunt rudeness. I might not be as bright as you are but when it comes to amorous affairs, I have been around the block. Nonetheless, I have to admit, as always, you stunned me. Now, bathroom."

Sherlock kind of sleepwalked to wash his face with cold water and brush his teeth. John leaned in the doorframe, watching him, looking very smug. The moment Sherlock turned around John was at him, losing himself in peppermint kisses.

When they finally broke apart, John took Sherlock's hand and dragged him towards the bedroom. There, he sat on the bed they had violated but a few hours ago. The small room still smelled heavily of sex.

Sherlock stood in front of John, looking down on him, half wondering, half daunting what might come next.

"You were absolutely right, with everything you said. I want you so much it rather frightens me. The things I want to do to you..." John trailed of, his thumbs stroking lightly over Sherlock's prominent hipbones, covered only by his silky dressing gown. "But you must acknowledge that I have a point, too. Left alone, we might consume each other wholly. And I won't risk that. I'm not sure about you but I need some reassuring stability in my life. I know that you tend to burn at both ends and still feel acutely world-weary, and I know your ways of dealing with this condition, and I don't approve." Sherlock tried to intersect but John just raised one hand, quieting him. "! will never give you up. You made your first and last vow at my wedding and now it's my time to make a vow to you and it is this: I will never leave you, as long as I live. But I can't be with you all the time."

John looked up at Sherlock with pleading eyes. Sherlock's own eyes were burning and he felt a lump in his throat that made it hard to swallow. In a weak attempt to lighten the mood, he tried for his trademark eyeroll but as he spoke he sounded not nearly as sassy as he tried to: "Is this your version of 'I love you too much to stay with you'? Really, John, what do you expect of me?" He suddenly sounded serious. "Shall I become your bit on the side? A kind of concubine to explore your dark desires with?"

"Would that be so bad?" John asked and they both knew that this was the genuinely grave question they had been dancing around for quite a while.

"Honestly, I don't know." Sherlock answered gentle after a moments thought.

John took hold of his hands and pulled him down until he was kneeling in front of the bed. John opened the girdle of Sherlock's dressing gown and let it slide off his slim frame. He looked intensely at Sherlock's pale torso that still displayed the marks the riding crop had left.

"You are so utterly beautiful."John whispered hoarsely as he stroked softly over the now merely pink welts, making Sherlock shiver. They locked eyes and Sherlock gasped as he saw John lick his lips. "I want to tell you one of my fantasies: I have you tied to this bed, your hands above your head, the ropes so tight they are cutting into the flesh of your delicate wrists. You are watching me with wide eyes as I cut the sensitive white skin at the inside of your arms with my army knife until you bleed. Then I lick your blood from your pale limbs, sucking at your wounds until you beg me to stop. Finally, I have you lick your own blood from my lips and out of my mouth. And then I make you suck my cock while I press my knife against your throat, leaving a fine cut to remind you for the next few days of what I did to you."

Sherlock exhaled shakily.

"And I'm not sure what alarms me more,"John whispered, "me having such thoughts, or you getting obviously off on this."


	7. What is this thing that is happening to me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves the rather ridiculous case and earns his reward.

Even Sherlock's longest night had eventually to end.

He can't remember falling asleep but when he wakes up, John is gone.

His whole body hurts but not unpleasantly. In fact, Sherlock feels rather... content. Happy even.

John sounded willing to enter into some sort of affair with him.

Good.

Very, very good!

\-----------------------------

Of course, there's still the case.

The longer Sherlock thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes that the killer used his victims as a substitute for someone. It has to mean something that both girls had been ginger. That is, in fact, the only thing they have in common. That, and being young and female.

Tea, he needs tea and then he will do some proper thinking.

When he is settled down in his chair with a mug in front of him, he absentmindedly starts to browse the papers. He always reads the agony columns first, for they burst with the very essence of human sentiment, of which Sherlock knows it's but the most vicious motivator.

As he scrolls down the page, his eyes are caught by a rather unusual advert.

_**Red-heads beware!**_  
_We are looking for genuinely ginger women up to 21 years to become a star of the West End._  
_Open audition today from 12.00 to 3.00 at the Blue Elephant Theatre._

When Sherlock finally gets Lestrade on the phone it takes some time to convince the DI to send a ginger WPC undercover to audition but in the end NSY finds a suitable candidate who even can sing and dance a bit. Sherlock meets Lestrade and the woman - by name of Jenny - at the stage door of the theatre. The Inspector poses as the girl's father, Sherlock as her boyfriend, proudly accompanying an upcoming starlet.

There are red-heads everywhere - and even if not all genuine, they show a rather alarming variety, from light strawberry to deep aubergine.  


Lestrade feels obviously uneasy but Sherlock thrives in his role. He's dressed in tight black jeans and an old faded Pulp t-shirt - who knew he donned such plebeian garments - giggling with the excited young policewoman, despite the smile never fully reaching his eyes. While Jenny signs in and prepares herself, Sherlock scans the surroundings and the people involved in the casting - technicians, actors, stage hands, musician and fellow contestants with friends and relations.

In the end it's very obvious - at least to Sherlock - that the killer is the assistant director.

"His tie! He went to Cambridge, worked for the Footlights but now he's engaged in this rather mediocre production!? Well, he's clearly overqualified for this job, so there must be other reasons than artistic aspects why he wants to be associated with this... performance." Sherlock's mouth curls in distaste. Prior to this case, he thought Les Mis lingering rock bottom at the abyss of poor taste in West End Theatre but he has to admit this is a good deal worse, the Mariana Trench of crude vulgarity.

"So, you mean he was here for the red-haired lasses?" Lestrade asks slowly, feeling a bit at a loss.

"Of course. I'm sure he even suggested the whole idea to the director and manager. Clearly, he suffers from some mental condition, imagining being in a secret relationship with Geraldine Halliwell and when she didn't respond the way he expected, he directed his hate at young women with red hair, killing them substitutional for the inaccessible object of his desire."

"Wait, who? Geraldine Halliwell?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Really, Lestrade: Ginger Spice! Under which stone did you live in the nineties?"

With that he stalks off, leaving the Inspector gaping at Sherlock's surpising knowledge of Britsh pop culture.

_________________________________

With the case solved, Sherlock should feel - well, if not euphoric, then at least pleased with himself, even if it was barely a five in the end. But instead he just feels drained. Back at Baker Street there is no one he can boast in front of, no one to admire his clever deductions and praise his canny brains.

Sherlock briefly ponders ringing John and telling him he's solved the case but in the end shies away from the idea, thinking he might seem desperate. To be honest, he is desperate but he would rather bite off his own tongue than to give in to his longing.

Instead, he pours himself a stiff drink and runs a bath. Soaking in the hot water, he closes his eyes, sips his whisky and allows himself to think back over the events of the last few weeks and what to make of them.

____________________________________

John reads about the solved case in the papers - one tabloid capturing it in the headline "The Ginger League" - and in one article he spots a picture of Sherlock at the theatre, casually dressed in jeans and t-shirt. He looks much younger this way, delicate and vulnerable and John delects himself at a memorised vision of Sherlock, kneeling obediently in front of him, presenting his lean pale body to him to do as he pleases.

John knows that what they had been up to lately is not just some harmless shagging. If he's honest with himself - and John Watson is no coward, he can face his desires as well as his nightmares - sex with Sherlock was mindblowing, transcending, elevating _(getting quite poetic, Watson!)_. And completely different to his experiences with Mary - or, in fact, with anyone prior to Sherlock.

John had always suspected that he craved depraved sensations but never before had he allowed himself to give in to this dark needs and indulge in them. Oh, but the things he wanted to do to Sherlock, having suddenly realised that his... friend?... Colleague?... Flatmate?... Lover?... could not only deal with John's aspirations but yearned for them as much as John himself did, fitting in perfect complementary fashion, taking insatiably where John desperately wanted to give, bending to John's will and whims - but never breaking, regardless how demanding John acted.

But John also understands the danger lurking beneath his intense feelings. He has no guilty conscience for cheating on Mary - in fact, he didn't regard the sex with Sherlock as cheating at all, so separated and alienated from his normal life felt what they were doing. That is in fact the very reason why John never contemplated leaving his wife. He is quite sure that the eager tension between Sherlock and him is not applicable to a formal relationship - being boyfriends _(how camp!)_ , doing the shopping together _(Jesus!)_ , calling themselves by endearments _(sickening!)_ , growing old together _(oh, stop it!)_.

What they have is not supposed to be cosy and domestic - it never had been, even before they engaged in sexual intercourse. It is - and always has been - exciting, unpredictable, even disturbing. And it has to hurt. It simply is to good to break it off.

This decision reached, John takes out his phone. He still has Sherlock on speed dial. He presses one - and waits for the detective picking up, which he does after the second ring.

"I have to see you." John is not asking, he is demanding.

"I'm busy." Sherlock retorts tartly, trying to sound detached.

"Don't play games with me, Sherlock Holmes." John sounds dangerously calm.

There is a short silence on the other end of the line.

"Come at seven."

"No, not at Baker Street. I read you solved the case, so we have something to celebrate, don't you think?"

Again, this is met with silence. After a rather long pause Sherlock cautiously answers: "Yes." It sounds more like a question.

"Tomorrow evening, at The Landmark, eight o'clock sharp."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock's voice trails off.

"And wear something nice. I liked your slacker outfit but honestly, I prefer you in a suit."

With this, John presses disconnect, smiling maliciously.


	8. The one that you took, god, it really really helped you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a proper dinner together. Afterwards, John has a little surprise for Sherlock.
> 
> This is maybe not save and sound but at least consensual, so you have been warned.

Sherlock arrived at The Landmark on time. He had shortly entertained the idea of running late on purpose, to see what reaction that might draw from John but in the end he decided against it, not willing to risk the subtle understanding they were establishing.

He had dressed himself carefully, wearing a slim black suit and a tight white shirt (of course without a tie), leaving the top two buttons undone, exposing his long neck and the hollow between his clavicles.

As he entered the restaurant Sherlock was met by an attendant who recognised him instantly.

"Ah, Mr Holmes, always a pleasure!" Sherlock doubted that but he was not in the mood to give a dismissive answer. "Your table is ready."

Sherlock was led to a small table at the back of the large dining room, dimly lit to achieve the effect of intimacy while sharing space with a mass of insignificant others.

John was already sitting at the table, studying the menu and Sherlock took the seat opposite him. John looked up and smiled; Sherlock greeted him with a small nod.

"Shall we wait for your brother?" the waiter asked politely.

Sherlock nearly choked before John kicked him hard under the table, fixing him with a tight smile. A sharp cough escaped Sherlock's mouth before he turned towards the waiter, answering in that crisp posh voice he could put on if need be: "I'm very sorry but unfortunately he will not be able to attend. Urgent government business, I'm afraid..." He shrugged apologetically.

"So it will just be the two of us?" John asked teasingly.

Sherlock shot him a look and was about to give a brazen reply when the waiter inquired if they were ready to order drinks. As John asked for a wodka tonic Sherlock abruptly shut his mouth and remembered the reason for this dinner. He must not think about Mycroft at this occasion, he really musn't!

When drinks had been ordered and the waiter finally left, Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to irk a questioning eyebrow at John. 

"Mycroft? John, honestly...?"

"Well, seems some of your skills rubbed-off on me."

"And couldn't you put your brain to a better use?"

"Lying is a very creative process, as you should know. It requires exceptional skill to come out convincingly. Beside, how did you think I was able to get a reservation for a Saturday evening at a place like this if not in the name of your brother?"

"Can we refrain from talking about him from now on?"

"If you say please." John's face became hard around his eyes as he fixed Sherlock with an unrelenting stare that made him feel as if John was looking right at the bottom of his undeniably faint heart.

Sherlock caught his breath, tilted his head ever so slightly and looked up at John from under his long dark lashes, biting his lower lip.

"Please, John." he said a bit breathless, letting his voice drop.

"Oh, stop that, you git!" But Sherlock observed John's pupils dilating, his eyes going a very dark blue. He smirked mugly. _'Got you!'_ he thought.

Sherlock was surprised how easily they slipped into their old friendship-mode while having dinner. John had demanded that Sherlock actually ate some of the meal he had ordered, so he picked at his Risotto of girolle mushrooms ( _"If you are having Italian we could have gone to Angelo's!" John had complained, sounding a bit put out, to which Sherlock had replied "But that wouldn't have been as romantic as this place.", earning him another deft kick while John had ordered the 28 day aged Buccleuch fillet steak with chunky chips and peppercorn sauce, clearly intending to enjoy himself on every level at Mycroft's expanses._ )

They talked about the case afterwards, Sherlock reeling off his deductions and, as by default of a police squad in general and Lestrade in particular Sherlock had to take on their roles as well, made John laugh so hard he nearly squirted his wine all over the starched linen tablecloth.

"Dessert?" John asked, a bit dizzy with drink and happiness.

"I hope you have something explicitly smutty in mind?"

"God, you are quite a greedy slut, aren't you?" John's voice came out deep and rough, making the hairs at the back of Sherlock's neck rise. He was even blushing slightly.

"Actually I was talking about pudding," John continued in a lighter tone, "but now as you have diverted the course of the evening, I might as well inform you that your brother made a reservation at the hotel as well, unwilling to drive back home after a very saturating evening. It would be a shame to forfeit it, as he will be charged for it anyway, don't you think?"

"He will kill you."

"That would be tremendously ambitious of him. I was a soldier, remember? But I'd like to see him try." John's grin was downright predatory and Sherlock answered with a wicked smile.

"Finished?"

"Ready when you are."

______________________________________

The room was vast, the walls panelled in dark wood, the floor covered with a thick burgundy carpet. At the far wall stood a genuine medieval looking four-poster bed - promising. Next to the door was a chintz-covered sofa with a low mahagony table in front.

"Wow, I didn't explicitly ask for the honeymoon-suite but don't look a gift horse in the mouth seems a very adequate motto right now, don't you think?"

"It's just the standard superior single room, John."

"How would I know, hm?"

They turned around to face each other and the mood suddenly shifted from jovial banter to tense with anticipation in an instant.

"Sit down." John's voice was firm, bearing no resistance.

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and lowered himself onto the sofa. John followed him, bowed down and whispered in his ear: "I have a surprise for you," his breath tingling Sherlock's neck, his lips nearly brushing Sherlock's ear. He shivered expectantly.

"Take this jacket off."

Sherlock obeyed, never taking his eyes off John, who reached for his inside pocket to retrieve a small glass cylinder filled with clear liquid, and a sterile plastic-wrapped syringe. Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he absentmindedly licked his lips.

"What...?" He trailed off, unable to take his eyes from the little flask.

"You know very well what this is, Sherlock. I nicked it from the surgery, so it's quite potent and very high class. Fitting, don't you think?" John sounded really pleased with himself.

"This... is unexpected." Sherlock murmured after a few moments. "I thought you disapprove."

"Well, tonight I'm not with you in my official capacity as the poster boy for health and safety."

John carefully unbuttoned Sherlock's right cuff and rolled up the sleeve, exposing a thin pale arm, sporting a few small, healing track marks. The dark blue veins were clearly visible and stuck out from the sinewy forearm but John nonetheless loosened his belt und pulled it tight over Sherlock's biceps, before flicking the soft flesh at the inside of Sherlock's elbow to encourage the vein to protrude more prominently. When John was satisfied he pierced the foil cap and drew up the syringe.

"Let me. I just want to..." John could not finish his sentence; his hands were trembling. He stared at Sherlock, transfixed, feeling his mouth go dry. Everything around them shrank into obscurity and became totally insignificant as John finally grabbed Sherlock's arm tightly and pressed the sharp tip of the needle against yielding white skin. 

Sherlock had stopped breathing, watching the syringe breach his body, penetrating him in this most intimate way. John drew blood before pushing the plunger slowly but firmly down, injecting the drug into Sherlock' s bloodstream.

He noticed the hit instantly, his heartrate speeding up, feeling warm and relaxed despite the turmoil in his body. He became utterly calm, his head fell back against the cushions and his eyes fluttered shut. He sensed John loosening the belt around his arm but that registered only at the fringe of his mind, which became fuzzier by the second.

John watched Sherlock entranced, observed his pupils constricting until they were but the size of a pinhead, his whole body going form tightly strung to loose-limbed and pliant in a few second.

"You alright?" John asked softly, brushing a dark curl tenderly from Sherlock's forehead.

"Very." Sherlock mumbled. 

"Fine. Shall we begin?"

"Haven't we already?"

"Oh no. This was just a bit of foreplay."

"I will never render that superfluous again."

John smiled darkly at the wrecked and hazy man next to him. Oh, having Sherlock helpless and at his mercy would be rather delicious. "Now shut up, will you!"

Sherlock grinned lazily. "Make me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You find the menu of The Landmark's Restaurant at  
> http://www.landmarklondon.co.uk/en/marylebone-bar-restaurant/twotwentytwo-restaurant-bar


	9. And you've laid your hands upon me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be blood!  
> ________________________
> 
> And I still find it so hard  
> To say what I need to say  
> But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me  
> Just how I should feel today  
>  _New Order - Blue Monday_

John let his fingertips brush over Sherlock's cheek, down to his jaw, then tilted his chin up ever so slightly and kissed him chaste and softly on his lips. Sherlock tried to focus, blinking slowly, devouring the tender kiss. He tried to say something but John put his indexfinger against his lips, silencing him with a low hush.

"Do you remember what I told you? What I want to do to you?" John whispered, only inches away from Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock needed a few seconds to process the question. 

"Yes..." he eventually answered, breathless, his voice trailing off.

John licked down Sherlock's neck just with the tip of his tongue and Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut again. When he reached Sherlock's open collar, John pressed his lips against the pulse point, sucking hard, leaving a dark mark on the pale flesh.

John carefully started to unbutton the front of Sherlock's shirt, exposing creamy skin under the crisp whiteness of the fabric. John let his hands roam over the hard panes, taking in the protruding rips, pectoral and abdominal muscles, the dust of dark hair on Sherlock's chest and below his navel, his rosy nipples, already hard little nubs even without being touched. 

John admired the gorgeous sight in front of him - Sherlock totally blissed out and half-naked - before reaching into his inside pocket again. This time he produced his flick knife, flashing the long sharp blade in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked at it, mesmerized, not even flinching.

John was overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him, hard, bruising, biting Sherlock's lower lip until he drew blood. He flicked his tongue over the damaged skin, licking, savouring the metallic taste, all the while pressing the blunt side of his knife against Sherlock's sharp cheekbone. Sherlock whimpered and bucked his hips, but John grabbed him with an unrelenting hand, pinning him down unto the sofa.

"Hold still," he mumbled against Sherlock's lips, withdrawing reluctantly, "don't move." 

When the sharp edge of his knife slid down Sherlock's sternum it leaft a fine red line in its wake. John stopped just above the navel and licked a broad stripe up over the cut, kissing Sherlock deep when he reached his mouth, letting him taste his own blood.

Their gaze met and John nearly lost himself in the heat he encountered in Sherlock's pale, hazy eyes. John's hands trembled slightly as he slowly lifted Sherlock's right arm, opened his cuff and rolled the sleeve up over Sherlock's elbow. Afterwards John let the knife ghost over the delicate skin of the wrist, drawing it up along the exposed inside of the forearm until reaching the tender crook of the elbow. Both men watched captivated as the blood trickled down over marble limbs, soaking the uprolled white cuff crimson. John pressed a tingling kiss to the middle of Sherlock's palm.

"God, this is so fucking hot. Do you have any idea how long I thought about this?"

"John..." Sherlock's head fell back against the rest of the sofa, eyes closed, lips parted, his breathing shallow. John let go of his hand, taking delight in the beautifully pliant body beneath him, now marked and bruised but still so trusting and responsive. Despite the tension in the room, Sherlock seemed totally calm and utterly at ease with the world surrounding them. 

John let his tongue dip in Sherlock's belly button, where blood from the cut to his chest had gathered, and sucked, bit and licked until Sherlock was positively writhing. John had to press the blade to Sherlock's throat to still him. Meanwhile, the hand not holding the knife started to unbutton Sherlock's fly. Sherlock bucked his hips, and John put the knife aside just long enough to remove Sherlock's shoes, socks and trousers, yanking them down, throwing then somewhere behind himself.

Now Sherlock just wore his slightly bloodstained shirt, falling open over his milky chest, and tight black boxer briefs. His cock was straining hard and John noticed a damp spot where his precome had soaked the cotton.

John put one hand over Sherlock's erection and started to palm it teasingly, while leaning in, whispering: "I'm afraid this will hurt now."

Sherlock gasped at the sudden pain and threw his upper body forward but was pressed against the backrest by John's strong hand, leaving his cock and grabbing him by one shoulder instead. Sherlock struggled as he sucked in air in short breaths, trying to will away the burning ache, feeling warm blood running down his thighs, staining the yellow chintzy upholstery. When the spasms receded and he seemed able to control his body again, John loosened his grip, leaving red marks on Sherlock's shoulder. He stroked the inside of Sherlock's right femoral, smearing his fingers with blood that dripped from the long deep gash he had inflicted.

"Don't make a sound," John croaked, trying for his voice to come out stern but his arousal got the better of him, giving away how desperately turned on he felt. He pressed his knife back against Sherlock's throat with his dominant left as he pulled Sherlock's cock free and started to stroke it firmly with his right hand.

Sherlock so very much wanted to squirm and push up into John's tight fist but even his fogged brain understood that he had to restrain himself and obey John's wishes, as the other man seemed really beyond the point to assert even the tiniest amount of healthy self control. Sherlock let John wank him ruthlessly, watching his cock being pulled roughly, with mostly blood as lubricant. The pain in his leg, the fierce touch to his cock, and the sharp blade pressed unrelentingly against his throat all merged together, giving Sherlock the transcendental experience of being completely at John's mercy. Surrendering body and mind completely, he came so hard that he saw white light flash behind his closed eyelids as he shot hot come over his wounded chest, even hitting his chin.

John lowered the knife and started to smear the pearly-white beads with his bloodstained fingers, rubbing the gory mix all over Sherlock's ribcage, looking stricken at the mess of bodily fluids he was making on tight muscles and pale skin. Finally he brought up his fingers to Sherlock's mouth.

"Open!" John commanded, voice sounding strangled and as Sherlock obeyed, John pushed two fingers into his mouth. He watched breathless while Sherlock licked and sucked eagerly until the knuckles were clean. 

John allowed himself to indulge in the sight of an absolutely spend Sherlock: covered in blood, sweat an semen, trying to gain some composure as he lounged on the sofa, yaw slack, soaked shirt splaying open, flaccid cock hanging out of his pulled down pants, eyes blinking uncomprehending, black curls plastered wetly against his forehead.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" John gasped, quite proud of being that eloquent despite his own very prominent arousal. "You are filthy."

He pulled Sherlock abruptly to his feet - extracting a wailing noise, leaving him standing shakily on weak legs - grabbed his hand and more hauled than guided a stumbling Sherlock towards the bed. There, John stripped the soiled shirt off Sherlock's frail body and told him to hold onto one of the bedposts as to not keel over onto the mattress.

"Take your pants off." John demanded, and Sherlock started to peel the cotton down his long, long legs, stepping out of them quite gracefully regarding his currently dazed state. Sherlock just stood there, naked, in front of John, leaning slightly against the wooden bedpost, one supporting hand raised above his head, stretching his lean frame in all his glorious ravishing beauty, displaying his wrecked body, reminding John of an utterly erotic medieval martyr.

John stepped close, brought his hand to the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulled him in for a deep kiss and groaned under his breath: "I think I'm going to fuck you now. I'm going to fuck you so hard until you beg me to come, but I won't and when you think you can't take any more, I'll stop and pull out for a few moments before we'll start again. I'll fuck you sore, so you can feel me for the next few days, reminding you just what a greedy whore you are, never getting enough. Do you want me to do that?"

"Yes, John, Please..."


	10. Shiver at the sight of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If love's the truth then look no lies  
> And let me swim around your eyes  
> I've found a place I'll never leave  
> Shut my mouth and just believe...  
>  _The Lightning Seeds - Pure and Simple_

It seemed to Sherlock that he'd been fucked for hours. 

High, aching and in a state of post-orgasmic bliss, he had lost track of time after the moment John took him to bed. He had got on his hands and knees in the middle of the mattress while John had undressed quickly in a very efficient (military!) way. Finally naked, John had pushed one strong hand between Sherlcok's shoulderblades, so that his head rested on his folded forearms while his arse was in the air, presenting himself to John to do as he pleased.

IAs it turned out it had happened to please John to spread Sherlock's legs even wider, bringing his own knees between Sherlock's rather bony ones, pushing his thighs apart. At least this time John had had the decency to use some lube while - very briefly and rather insufficiently - preparing Sherlock with his fingers.

"God, you are so tight." John's breath had ghosted over Sherlock's sweaty lower back, raising goosebumps. He'd vaguely sensed John fumbling behind him but had been unable to deduce what was going on - and frankly, he couldn't care less in these circumstances.

Sherlock had been effectively been beyond speech at this time. His wounded leg had trembled and his anus burned when it had been invaded by three bold fingers, ever so slightly brushing over his prostate with every odd stroke. The salty sweat that had trickled down his body itched in the cuts to his chest and arm. He had heard himself whimper, sounding degraded but had been unable to stop the noises escaping his throat. John had very much appreciated it and responded with a kind of low growl that had Sherlock pushing back against his violating fingers, desperate to get them inside himself even deeper, despite the pain he suffered.

"So eager..." John had whispered, running a possessive hand over Sherlock's spread cheeks before withdrawing, lining up his cock and pushing in. He hadn't stopped until he'd been buried to the hilt, sliding into Sherlock in one slow demanding motion, claiming him, bearing no resistance.

"Oh, god!" Sherlock had cried out, his body shuddering and squirming while trying to adapt to John's rather bigger than average girth and length that was driven into him remorseless. John had held him tightly by the hips, surely leaving bruises, before he had started to fuck him with long deep thrusts. But everytime he'd felt Sherlock coming close to finishing, John slowed down, withdrawing completely, only to push back in when Sherlock had calmed down a bit, until Sherlock was unable to tell how many times he might have nearly come.

"John, please...." Sherlock barely recognised his voice- sounding so needy, depraved, and quite broken - as he felt hot tears mix with the sweat that was running down his face, dampening his quivering arms that cradled his head.

At last, John seemed to take pity on him, flipping Sherlock's boneless body on his back and hitching his shaking thighs over his shoulders. Before John entered him again, Sherlock caught the sight of John's swollen cock, engorged by a silver cockring.

"You bastard!" He hissed, but was silenced immediately by John, who brought one hand to Sherlock's swollen cock and started to stroke him fast and hard, mimicking the thrusts up his arse. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned shamelessly.

"I told you I would fuck you for hours." John smiled down at him wickedly. "Don't you dare to come without me giving you permission!"

After that, Sherlock was reduced to incoherent chokes, moans and cries for another half hour, while John wanked him until he felt positively chafed. To prolong his pleasure John pressed two fingers to the base of Sherlcok's cock every time he teetered on the edge. But just as Sherlock finally abandoned all hope of ever being allowed to come, John eventually let go of his aching shaft and pushed into Sherlock so violently that he saw stars and yelled. John sped up even more, hitting Sherlock's prostate full force every time he shoved his cock up Sherlock's tight arse and then suddenly Sherlock- despite all his soreness - felt John pulsing, shooting load after load inside him.

"Come on, Sherlock, come for me!" John all but grunted, staring down at their joined bodies while clasping to Sherlcok's thighs and Sherlock's cock started squirting as he came untouched - not as intensely as the first time but still coating his abdomen with pearly stripes. John gazed down at him with dark eyes and let go of Sherlock's legs to plant his hands on either side of Sherlock's head, watching his face contort with pain and pleasure. Finally Sherlock become quite still, all expression wiped off his features, leaving him looking much younger, all guards down.

Because of the cockring John stayed hard inside Sherlock long after they both had finished. John moved a bit from time to time, extracting whining sounds from Sherlock, who by now was coming down from drugs and post-orgasmic bliss but still mercifully rode high enough on endorphines to not fully feel his shattered aching body.

When John eventually pulled out, Sherlock's whole body shuddered and spasmd. But John didn't allow for Sherlock to lower his legs; instead he pushed Sherlock's knees up until they were nearly pressed against his shoulders, spreading him obscenely wide and open. Sherlock looked up at John truly shocked, feeling exposed even in his rather dazed state but John seemed mesmerised by the sight in front of him: Sherlock's loose and slightly open hole, still twitching, come trickling out and oozing down his cleft. It stung when John brought his mouth down and started sucking, slurping his own semen from Sherlock's arse. This was so exquisitely filthy that Sherlock felt his cock stir again with interest. All he could do was throw his head back and moan, hoping for John to catch on. As Sherlock felt John's clever tongue enter his body, pushing inside his arsehole, making lewd wet sounds while licking deep, he very really thought he might have a heartattack or at least pass out. When his balls tightened a few seconds later his overstimulated prick tried his best to spurt a third time, failing miserably but Sherlock still felt as if he had finally reached pure oblivion.

After that, he couldn't remember much but John must have released him, because when he came round again he was lying on his side, knees tucked up to his chest, covered with a blanket. John stroked his back and kissed his nape.

"Hey, there you are," he murmured into Sherlock's damp black curls. "Can you get up?"

"Absolutely not."

"Ok, I'll give you five minutes rest and then we'll clean you up. You are a right mess."

"Don't...," Sherlock hesitated, not sure how to place John's rather affectionate behaviour, "...bother?"

"But I can't leave you like this. The maid will scream bloody murder when she'll discover you tomorrow."

"Mycroft will kill you anyway when he receives the bill. I think they'll at least have to upholster that sofa."

John chuckled. "We could send your brother the soiled linen as proof of the amendment of your previously virginal state."

"Oh, but he is well aware of... no, never mind." 

After that there was no more talking for a while as John turned Sherlock around and kissed him passionately, holding his face in his hands, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs. Sherlock was at a loss how to process this.

"You...," John whispered, unable to finish his sentence. Sherlock just looked at him, his eyes dark and wondering.

"Don't... John, you don't have to indulge in sentiment. It's ok, you know... this... it's really very, very sufficient and quite satisfying..."

"Shut up!" John snarled impatiently but when Sherlock ever so slightly flinched, he continued much softer, sounding even a bit in awe (but Sherlock was unable to tell if this was because he just had figured out something important or was genuinely impressed): "You are the most beautiful, gorgeous and amazing... thing... I have ever encountered."

"I am not a thing, John." Sherlock was surprised how calm he sounded.

"No, I know." John sighed. "Get up, you git, lets put you in a bath. And if you are a good boy, I might join you."

"I am not a boy either." Now Sherlock sounded mildly indignant.

"Honestly, we have to work on your pillow talk. No, don't say a word. Bath. At once!"


	11. My past is perilous, but each scar I bear, sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude that reveals a bit more about Sherlock's past and thereby of John's present feelings towards him.

John ran the bath while Sherlock leaned with his back against the cool tiles, looking at his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall above the sink, smoking. Never giving a fig what others might think of him, he savoured his debauched appearance, testimony to the lewd deeds he and John had just committed in the bedroom. His eyes were black and big as saucers in his gaunt pale face, his cheekbones sharply accentuated by the light, red lips swollen, dragging appreciative on his fag befor exhaling through the nose.

"Do you really need this?" John sounded a bit annoyed.

"You administered a class A drug to me not four hours ago and now you complain about me smoking?" Sherlock asked slightly amused, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, that did at least not affect innocent bystanders." John grumbled.

Sherlock coughed. "Consider it collateral damage. That's something you can acknowledge, I'm sure."

John turned off the tabs and sank into the hot water. Sherlock threw the stub into the toilet bowl, where it extinguished with a hiss and got into the tub as well, arranging his long limbs between John's spread thighs, leaning back against the other man's chest, resting his head on John's good shoulder.

They just lay there for some time, soaking their spend bodies and Sherlock felt his muscles relax as he become a bit drowsy from the heat. After a while, John started to clean him up, carefully dabbing a soft lufa sponge down Sherlcok's neck, arms, pectorals, abdomen, and... oh... just a bit lower.

"You weren't actually a virgin when we started... this?" John tried his enquiry to sound as casual as possible.

Sherlock snorted, amused because of the amount of naiveté he could still sense in John's words, even after what they had been doing over the past few weeks.

"Nope." The word popped from Sherlock's lips, accompanied by a ludicrous giggle. "Your deductive skills have indeed improved."

"But why does Mycroft think...?"

"Oh, he doesn't. In fact, he knows quite well what I was up to when... well, you know..." Sherlock trailed off, suddenly unsure how much he should reveal to John.

A short silence, then: "Care to elaborate?"

"Not really."

John fell silent again but continued to lather Sherlock's body with the sponge, which was greeted by a deep sigh of pleasure.

"But, at the palace, your brother insinuated that..."

"You can't leave it, can you?" Sherlock raised his voice, slightly exasperated. His deep baritone echoed from the tiled walls. "If you had been paying attention back then, instead of oggling Miss Adler's pictures, you might have well been able to recognise that Mycroft did not, in fact, deny any sexual experience on my part but only presumed that sexual encounters _alarm_ me, which might be true, due to previous experiences that were quite unpleasant _and which I rather won't discuss with you right now_ , as I tried to convey to you in a perhaps way to subtle fashion by _bluntly refusing to talk about it_! But as you are unwilling to drop this specific topic, I can disclose myself to you this far: I'm using since I was seventeen. Despite your believe to the contrary, the Holmes family is not _that_ wealthy, so I had to support my rather expensive habit on my own account. Given my looks and inclinations, I leave you to your own deductions as to what means I might have retorted to to subsidise said habit. Are we done here now?" Sherlock pushed John's hand away and got up, his usually graceful movements rendered clumsy equal parts by the slippery bathtub and his obvious agitation.

Climbing out of the tub Sherlock snatched one of the fluffy white bathtowesl from the rack and stormed off, leaving a somewhat bewildered John behind, who still held the sponge in one raised hand.

\------------------------

Sherlock, still wet and dripping, quickly felt chilly in the main room and started to look infuriatingly for his discarded clothes, boiling with rage. Realising that his pants were soiled past rescue (with blood AND semen), he just put his trousers on, which he found crumpled on the floor next to the bloodstained couch. 

The small bottle still stood on the table, looking very inviting. Bliss. Oblivion. Oh, so simple to resort to...

He hadn't realised John had come back from the bath until he heard his stern voice from behind his back.

"It's yours. Take it. You definitely _earned_ it." John sounded acerbic and Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat.

"Can you please stop it now, John? This is rather unhealthy and might even be considered pathological!" Sherlock tried to leash out but the despair that had crept into his voice betrayed him.

The room fell silent and it was not a companionable but a rather heavy one, loaded with too many unspoken accusations.

"Did you really sell yourself?"

"Yes." 

"To men?"

"Yes." Sherlock spun around and fixed John with an intense stare from suddenly very cold grey eyes. "Shocked?"

"Actually, yes."

"That's why I prefer _not_ to talk about it." Sherlock stated as if scolding a very slow child, accentuating every single word.

"But not disgusted."

"Oh." This was genuinely surprising.

John took a few steps towards Sherlock, standing close, his fingers touching the taller man's chest, brushing over soft warm skin and hard muscle.

"Did they hurt you?" But a whispered question.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He almost never went back to these dark places. It was not so much the pain that made him recoil but the utter humiliation he still felt, having been unable to say no. Instead he had to cope with every sick whim his punters had been inflicting upon him. He remembered closing his eyes, memorising the elements of the periodic table, or silently recounting fibernacci-figures, hoping it might be over soon. Some had been not that bad actually; therefore he had been able to erase them fairly easy from his memory. But a few encounters stuck in his mind and simply refused to being wiped.

"Some did, yes." He was proud that his voice shook just a little.

John took Sherlock's slender white wrist in his hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the delicate skin on the inside, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "This will never happen again. You are mine now!"


	12. I can feel the soil falling over my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to talk his brother out of whatever he has going with John. Regrettably, for once, Sherlock seems to listen.

All blood dries, every wound heals.

Sherlock is back at Baker Street. John is back with his wife. 

Mycroft is furious about an incredibly large hotel bill for the discreet refurbishing of a room at The Landmark (including new upholstery and complete change of bedding due to "contamination with bodily fluids" as the most embarrassed manager put it).

But when he tries to confront his brother about it, Sherlock just smirks.

"Sod off, Mycroft, this is none of your business."

"Well, it becomes my business, brother mine, when you make me pay for your indecent and, as I can conclude from the cautious wording of the report filed for the hotel's insurance company, outright lurid escapades with the good Doctor Watson - a married man, who's wedding you attended as best man, if I might remind you of this fact."

Sherlock just shoots his elder brother a scathing look. He tries for a mocking tone - quite convincing to his own astonishment - as he replies: "Oh, thank you. That must have slipped my mind. Now, wait, was that before or after John fucked me through the mattress you were so gracious to replace?"

"Your rudeness just makes it blatantly obvious how deeply emotionally involved you are in this matter. Sherlock, for god's sake, don't. Caring has never been an advantage and this is even more true in your current situation." Mycroft sounds genuinely worried.

"I think you are violating your own rules at the very moment, dear brother."

"While you are violating another man's marriage and soon his family. He's going to be a father, Sherlock. That is something you will never be able to give him. Do you really think John Watson will throw his precious offspring literally overboard just to play sordid little games with a junkie come selfprofessed sociopath, who's limited sexual experience derives from a time when he would have done absolutely anything with anybody for a fiver?" Mycroft's voice sounds deceivingly sweet while putting into words Sherlock's utmost fears.

Sherlock turns away from this onslaught at his pride, huffing exasperated but the additional benefit of this gesture - depriving his brother of the chance to observe the impact of his assertions - is not taken amiss.

"Really, Mycroft, not again." Sherlock throws his hands up rather dramatically. "You make it sound as if I was walking the streets, sucking some old geezer off in darkened backrows."

Mycroft inspects his shoes meticulously. "No, of course you had to hook up with friends and acquaintances of mine. Even colleagues." He sounds bitter for a moment. Sherlock is surprised that his brother displays his feelings of contempt this openly. "You had to make social and professional life utterly impossible for me." Mycroft looks up, smiling coldly.

"Are you trying to guilt me into something, Mycroft? You of all people should know that this will be absolutely futile." Sherlock retorts icily. "Besides, my conduct didn't do your career that much harm. Perhaps some things I did might have actually fired your meteoric rise to power." He sounds as if seriously pondering this line of argument.

Now it is Mycroft's turn to huff with indignation. 

"Risking sounding way too current: get real, little brother." The humour in his voice rings a bit false.

They glare at each other for a moment, neither willing to make the next move nor to withdraw.

It is Sherlock who speaks first: "You have no idea what's happening between John and me and I will go to any length to ensure that it stays precisely this way. We have a connection that is beyond your mediocre concept of healthy relationships."

"Oh, do you? But if you are so very clever, entertaining and good looking, why are you on your own tonight? Why do you sleep alone in your dingy bedroom? With your triumphs and your charme, while John is in his wife's arms? Because for you this is just like any other night. It is easy to love, Sherlock, as it is easy to hate, but it takes strengths to be gentle and kind."

"And you think me incapable of these virtues?"

"I am not talking about you, Sherlock. Think about that. Be careful." 

And with this, Mycroft is gone, leaving a dumbstruck Sherlock behind.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock doesn't hear from John for over two weeks and is about to crawl out of his skin and up the bullet-marked walls of his flat out of sheer frustration. He takes every case offered to him by Lestrade, even twos and threes, just to occupy himself but that leaves him feeling even more exhausted, as there's no reward to be gained - wether in form of adrenaline or praise - from stuff this dull.

Some nights he falls back on the little bottle John has left him but it mostly leaves him hollow and numb. At least, it helps to shut down his ever spinning brain and to cope with the hunger and deprivation he knows neither sleep nor food will be able to suppress or abolish.

He even allows himself to think about what Mycroft had said but only once or twice. Most of the time, he very intensely tries not to wait.

When John finally shows up at 221b unannounced on a Friday evening, Sherlock is in the middle of the first mildly interesting case he's been offered in what feels like decades and therefor comes over a bit distracted.

John tries the fridge for beer but of course it's empty, with the exception of a shrivelled lemon and a jam jar filled with eyeballs.

"Mmh, lovely," John mutters. "You happen to have anything to drink?"

"There's water from the tap." Sherlock replies absentmindedly, staring down his microscope at some important soil samples.

John sighs.

"Let's go out and get a drink somewhere."

"John, I'm in the middle of a case, this will have to wait."

"That wasn't actually a question, Sherlock. Your case will have to wait. I don't know when I will be able to absent myself from Mary again, as she's due every day now."

Sherlock freezes but luckily, he's still crouched over his microscope, so John can't see his face. Mycroft's words resonate in his head and he hates it, unable to stop listening.

Finally, he lifts his gaze. "Perhaps you should comfort her, then, and not impose yourself on me while I'm working," he says, aiming for detached while his whole body screams _'stay, leave her, come back to me'_.

John is startled by surprise for a moment. Something like disbelieving awe crosses his face briefly. Then he just turns around and slams the door shut behind him, descending the steps, leaving the Baker Street flat and a desperate Sherlock Holmes behind.

"Fuck!" Sherlock allows himself to utter the profanity out loud. "Thank you very much, Mycroft!" 

He loathes his elder brother even more than usual.


	13. Happiness is a warm gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does the birth of John's daughter change the nature of his encounters with Sherlock? And how does Sherlock cope?

Sherlock sometimes thinks about how his life could be different if _he_ could be different. And if he could be different, would he, perhaps, be happier?  
Anyway, his relationship with John is not about happiness but there's no turning back either.

\----------------------------------

Sherlock simply does not know what to do. He has no relating data, no experience in this specific area. He is utterly clueless: what might be deemed appropriate? What is expected of him? What has to be avoided at all cost?

He had solved his last case: it had all been a scam to trick the young woman - unaware of the fortune she inherited - into marriage. Follow the money. He had been able to derive the whereabouts of Miss Smith and her abductor - and by a hair's breadth rapist - thanks to the profound analysis of precisely that soil sample he had been examining the evening John had dropped by.

But had it been worth it?

\---------------------------------------

The baby is born on a Sunday, a girl. Mycroft breaks the news to Sherlock, keeping his voice detached, sounding very blasé. Sherlock deletes the name the moment he's been told. Mycroft gives his brother a sharp sideways glance, as if suddenly unsure if his decision to notify Sherlock of the profound change in John's life had been wise at all.

Sherlock feels - nothing. As far as he is concerned, his _'fling'_ with John is over. It ended the night he had shown him the door, refusing to interrupt his research. Not one to wallow in self-pity, he knows it is entirely his fault. His work will always come first. He's the one to blame, and isn't that an ending fitting for the start? He should contemplate the absurdly funny side of the matter but can't bring himself to do so. 

Now he can at least stop to wait for John. And if his thoughts drift towards him just before he falls asleep - which is seldom enough - there is no one to witness this trait of sentiment.

\--------------------------------------

The first time they meet again is at Mrs Hudson's birthday-do. Mrs Turner from next door organised a surprise birthday bash and, as she is oblivious of the tension between the two former flatmates, has invited them both.

Sherlock can only speak for himself: he truly hadn't anticipated that John would be there. It simply did not cross his mind. Did John expect _him_ to attend? Whatever...

Sherlock goes for polite, Mrs Hudson deserves that much from her lodger; he kisses her on the cheek, hands her a present, drinks some champagne and even takes a slice of cake - all the time avoiding John like the plague. Meanwhile, John shows baby pictures on his phone, at which the women coo, congratulating the proud father and inquiring after the state of the mother. It's sickening.

That's why as soon as might deemed socially appropriate, Sherlock makes for the door in a determined attempt to flee the mingling. But John catches up on him, suddenly blocking his way.

"You leaving?"  
"Sorry, case."

"Liar."

"Piss off."

"Always so eloquent."

They stare at each other and it's hard to tell who might be the more agitated party.

"Let's go upstairs," John growls.

Sherlock just snorts dismissively and arches an eyebrow.

"You can't be serious." He pushes past John, but something flutters deep in Sherlock's stomach as he hears John's tread on the steps, following.

Sherlock dashes into the living room and John is right behind him, closing the door decisively.

They do not talk. What is there to talk about, anyway?

John has one hand in Sherlock's hair and the other down his pants in an instant. Sherlock gasps and closes his eyes as John bites down hard on his neck, then lets himself be pressed against the wall while John rubs fiercely at his cock.

They crash into a bruising kiss, all bared teeth and sliding tongues and Sherlock comes with a sob, spilling over John's hand and his own shirt.

"What do you want, tell me, I'll do anything you want?" he pleads, panting, and John smears his cum over his lips and cheeks, looks at him with eyes blown wide and simply says: "Bed."

Somehow they make it up the stairs to John's old bedroom, so as not to disturb the party downstairs. Sherlock shimmies backwards on the mattress, his eyes on John, who is watching him unblinking. 

The room is only dimly lit, it is a late October afternoon and the curtains are drawn against the chill, as the room is currently unoccupied - Sherlock couldn't bring himself to take it over, not even to store some of his stuff.

Languidly Sherlock unbuttons his soiled shirt and pulls his trousers fully down, his pale skin glowing in the semi-darkness. John savours the sight, taking a good long look. 

When Sherlock is just in his pants, he leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, the muscles in his lean arms and taught stomach clearly visible.

John moves slowly towards the bed, crawling on top of Sherlock, licking a wet stripe from his waistband over his sternum, and - as Sherlock throws his head back, baring his long neck - right up to his chin. There he pauses, looking down.

"God, I missed you," he mumbles.

Sherlock allows a lazy smile to creep onto his face, then closes his eyes as John bends down and kisses him almost tenderly. They just kiss and kiss for some minutes, both tasting Sherlock's come, and it is an utterly intimate moment, until John pulls away and whispers: "Lie down, grab the headboard."

Sherlock does as he is told, shivering with anticipation. As he is accustomed to wear formal attire at festivities, John sports a tie today. Now he loosens it and takes it off to wrap the silky garment firmly around Sherlock's wrists, tieing them to the headboard. When Sherlock is securely bound, John starts to run his hands over his chest, pinching his now completely erect nipples, splaying his fingers over his pectorals, then moving lower, finally pulling Sherlock's pants off. He is displayed beneath John, naked and stretched out, helpless and waiting.

John's hands skim over both of Sherlock's thighs, up and down, spreading them. Finally, he bows down and kisses the inside of Sherlock's left knee, moving up the inner thigh, to bite down hard just before he reaches his inguinal. Sherlock squirms but John only bites down harder, until he can taste blood. He starts sucking and Sherlock cries out, both at the sensation and the pain.

Only then does John tilt his head, looking up at Sherlock, who stares back, eyes dark. Slowly, John moves up his naked body.

He next assaults Sherlock's right nipple, his teeth piercing the delicate pink skin, until he draws blood again. He lets his tongue lap and lick over the stinging wound until Sherlock begs him to stop, weeping in mild shock.

Bringing his face near Sherlock's, his lips smeared with blood, John whispers dangerously low: "You turned me down. Because of your work. Listen, Sherlock, listen very carefully: Do not do that ever again, or I swear, you will be very sorry." To emphasise his words John brings his left hand up to Sherlock's throat and presses down. 

At first, Sherlock thinks it might just be a rough caress but it soon dawns on him that John is very seriously choking him, firmly squashing his trachea, so forcefully that he might pass out any minute. He needs to say something, but of course, what escapes his mouth is merely just hoarse croaking. Black spots dance before his eyes as he desperately tries to breath, but to no avail. His brain urges him to struggle, to free himself, and he yanks - in vain - at his restrains. John watches his futile attempts, smiling darkly, looking actually amused. 

"Don't fight me, Sherlock."

Sherlock registers that his arms and legs start to spasm, then jerk uncontrollably, before it gets dark around him while he makes embarrassing wailing noises.

When he comes round again, John is sitting next to him on the bed, still fully clothed. Sherlock feels dizzy, his throat is sore and his head pounds like he's in the middle of a heavy migraine attack. After a moment he swallows, then coughs as it aches.

John smooths his dark curls from his forehead but Sherlock just stares back at him, not sure how to process what just happened.

Finally, John speaks, his voice soft and tender: "Don't think I enjoy punishing you, it hurts me at least as much as it hurts you. But, you know, you have to be disciplined when you do not obey. Otherwise, I can never gain the amount of control over you that we both crave. And what do you think might happen if I fail, mh? Do you think you could completely let go if you can't be sure that I will be taking care of both of us?"

Sherlock listens to Johns little speech, letting the words sink in.

"Thank you, John." He finally responds, not smiling, instead tensely waiting for John's reaction. Did he do it right, did he for once say what is expected of him?

Apparently he did, as John bows down and kisses him gently on his forehead, his fingers stroking Sherlock's still wet cheek.

"I think that was enough for today. We'll proceed next time I'll come over."

He does not specify when that might happen.

But Sherlock can wait.


	14. Live through this, and you won't look back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, John has to make a decision. He gets a little help from his friends with that, because that's what friends are for.

_This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin_  
_Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in_  
_Now you're outside me_  
_You see all the beauty_  
_Repent all your sin_

Stars, Your Ex-Lover is Dead  
_____________________________________________________  
John really tried to fit in. He honestly tried very hard to make an afford. And now he had everything he wanted, hadn't he? A beautiful wife, a lovely baby girl, a house in a leafy suburb. 

So, why did he feel this restless? 

Why did all of this feel like he was playing a part in a movie about his life, performing the part of husband and father? Convincingly? 

His days start with sweet sleepy kisses, followed by baby cuddling, breakfast, then work (a bit dull but economically and socially rewarding), back home, dinner, baby cuddling again, nappy changing (to show he could and cared), telly (while Mary puts the baby to bed), a bit of wife cuddling on the sofa, then off to bed. 

Perfect. Ordinary. And perfect. 

So why the fuck couldn't he be, well, if not entirely happy, then, at least, content? 

Of course, he knew perfectly well what he was missing, what his ordinary, satisfying life was lacking: 

The smell of Sherlock (cardamom, coffee, something chemical, a hint of tobacco, sweat) when clawing at his sheets, being thoroughly fucked. 

The small needy sounds Sherlock makes while being thoroughly fucked. 

The unbelievable amount of trust visible in all the things he had allowed John to do to him. 

Sherlock's strange eyes, nearly all black pupils, watching in amazement all the unspeakable things John does to him. 

Mary is soft, accommodating, willing, utterly normal - in bed and life. The sheer thought of hitting her with his belt, let alone cut her with his army knife, makes John nauseous. He not even dares to mention the option of having "kinky" sex to her. She would, at best, just laugh at him, then frown it away as "one of his whims" induced by - what she calls - "his bachelor days". Whenever some unusual sex act comes up on the telly, in a book or one of her more adventurous woman's magazines, she refers to it with disbelieve ( _"Do people actually do these things?"_ ) and / or disgust. 

And John has been absolutely ok with that. She wasn’t supposed to be like that. She is a wife and mother - not a submissive fucktart, for god's sake! 

This part is already taken in the life of John Watson, thank you very much. 

It hadn't been easy for him to admit his dark desires even to himself. He had always suspected but never actually acted upon them, not before that fatal first night with Sherlock. And after that, it seemed as if all his solidly built walls were coming tumbling down. 

There's no turning back now and no stopping. He has waited long enough. And Sherlock seems very amenable too, as if he only needed someone to take control, to claim him, body and soul. 

And what a delight it was to bend this beautiful body and magnificent mind! John craves it, wants it, desires it, needs it. It liberated him. Only with Sherlock can he be who he really is, without being judged or scrutinized. 

And that frightens him. He knows he has to stop, before he destroyes everything dear to him. Of course, he knows that. But he can't. 

_\------------------------------------------------------_

He reached breaking point one Tuesday morning on his way to work. The headlines sprang right into his face: "To Close to Holmes. Famous Sleuth Hit Hard". At first, John didn't take in what the article was about, just stared uncomprehending at the fat black letters. Until he spotted the hated "hat picture" of Sherlock with the dearstalker. Dazed, he grabbed a paper from the stand and started reading. Other commuters bumped into him, cursing, but John just stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. 

The plain news, hidden behind lots of gory speculation, was that Sherlock had been injured during a case, that his condition was critical and he was fighting for his life in some hospital. 

After reading the paragraphs for three times, scanning for more information and not gaining any, John finally felt able to walk. He turned around and hailed a cab to take him straight to Baker Street. 

Mrs. Hudson would know. And she did. She nearly collapsed onto him after opening the front door, clinging to his arm, eyes red-rimmed, voice coars: "Oh, John. Have you heard?!" 

"I just saw it in the papers. What happened? Where is he?" 

"An assistant of his brother's came by late last night. He was brought to St. Thomas Hospital. She said..." 

But John did not wait to listen. 

_\------------------------------------------------------ --------_

The young doctor was polite, but firm: "As you are not a family member, I am very sorry but I can't give you access to the patient in question." 

John tried very hard to stay calm and sound reasonable: "Listen, I'm a doctor myself. I know the rules and procedures. But he's my... best friend. I have to see him. You must make an exception!" 

"I understand that you're upset..." 

"What's this commotion?" A crisp and quite familiar voice called from behind John's back. 

Turning around, John exclaimed in relieve: "Mycroft, for god's sake, tell this Cerberus to let me through!" 

"Doctor Watson, always a pleasure." Mycroft greeted jovially. "But I’m afraid my brother is in a rather serious condition and has to be protected from all interference." 

"I am not here to interfere with anything, I just want to see him!" 

"Sorry, but unfortunately, as this nice medical professional pointed out to you very patiently, you are not entitled to do so, as you are not family." 

"Mycroft!" John was unable to follow the surreal turn the conversation had taken. He stood bewildered in this too brightly lit hospital corridor, smelling of detergent and, faintly, of sick, being very politely told to piss off. 

"John, please, no offence." Mycroft at last seemed to fear him starting to make a scene. "Come along, let's get a coffee... somewhere?" The elder Holmes looked around a bit helpless, as if confronted for the first time in his life with the need to get hold of hot beverages by himself. Perhaps he was. 

But help was at hand. The young doctor, who had stood by during their confrontation, pointed down the corridor. 

"Thank you." Mycroft acknowledged with a small nod of his head. 

"Mycroft!" 

"John, you're repeating yourself. Come on, let's go." And Sherlock's brother started to walk down the corridor, not waiting to look back if John followed along - who saw no other option than to do exactly that. 

When they reached a suspiciously empty hospital cafeteria, Mycroft just frowned at the vending machine, humming quietly on the far wall. In the end they just sat down at a grimy table beneath a neon light, not bothering with drinks. 

"Tell me, what happened?" John pressed again. 

"You seem very agitated." 

"Of course, Mycroft. I learned it from the papers. They said his condition is critical. So, please, tell me, what happened. How is he?" 

"Why does it concern you?" Mycroft sounded genuinely surprised. "It's really none of your business - anymore." 

"M- Mycroft!" John stammered. "It's Sherlock, for fuck's sake. Stop this." John made a wide, rather helpless gesture with his hand, taking in not only them sitting together, talking, but the whole hospital as well. 

"No need for profanities." Mycroft looked a bit taken aback. He continued gravely: "He is my little brother. I am very concerned about him, constantly, as you are well aware. But what is he to you?" 

John blinked and looked down at the depressingly beige surface of their table, suddenly desperately wishing for a cup of something to occupy his hands with. 

"John?" Mycroft's voice was soft, almost gentle. 

John finally raised his head. "What are you getting at?" 

"You tell me." 

"I have the distinct feeling that we have been here before. Remember when you kidnapped me on the first day I moved in with Sherlock?" 

"And do you remember me voicing my concerns regarding your association with my brother?" 

"I remember that we established some kind of trust between each other." 

"Yes, John, I thought so too. Precisely my conclusion." Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his mouth - the universal Holmes gesture. "But, as of lately, I have come to doubt my judgement." 

John didn't flinch. "If this is about our night at the Landmark..." 

The elder Holmes held up a perfectly manicured hand in defiance. Rather angry - at least for him - he interrupted: "Please, John, I regard myself a man of the world. If you take delight in strapping my little brother to a bed and paddle his backside, that's entirely your business, one I regard as a private act between the two of you. In fact, I sometimes wish doing the same." 

John looked shocked and inhaled sharply, causing Mycroft to arch an eyebrow. "Not in that way, of course." Mycroft shuddered, sounding a bit upset. "What I am trying to convey to you is that your kinky sex games are none of my concern. But Sherlock's wellbeing is." 

Now it was John's turn to raise a questioning eyebrow. 

"Oh, come on, John, are you really so dense?" Mycroft sounded surprisingly like his brother. "Do you have no idea what you are doing to him?" Seeing John's rather blank expression, Mycroft continued, his voice tense: "First, you show him what friendship can mean, that there is at least one human being able and willing to cope with him, than you leave him to get... married." Mycroft spat the word out in disgust. "Only to come back to him shortly afterwards, introducing him to sex..." 

"I didn't." John interrupted. 

"Between consenting adults? Of course you did." Mycroft retorted sharply. "And then you leave him again, and again, coming back in between to indulge in ... whatever. But he doesn't know when, or why. And he is unable to deal with this situation." 

John tried to say something, but Mycroft ploughed on, now visibly enraged. "Let me finish! We are talking about a man who has great difficulties to come to terms with social norms at the best of times; a man who shuts out unwanted emotions by extensive and persistent use of narcotics of a magnificent variety; a man who banned all feelings from his life to focus purely on his intellect. He developed no coping mechanism for the kind of hell you are putting him through. That's why I can't allow any contact between the two of you at this critical moment." 

"He is not a child anymore, Mycroft. He can decide for himself!" 

"Not at the moment." Mycroft sounded very pleased with this situation. 

John inhaled, counted to ten and then he asked, as calm as possible: "Can you please just tell me how he is? What happened?" 

Mycroft rose. "He ran. And tripped." 

"Mycroft, just this once, can you try not being cryptic?" 

"But John, I am quite honest with you. May I suggest that you, perhaps, follow my example? As I said before: time to choose your side." 

And with that, he turned and left. 

John sat and watched Sherlock's brother take his leave, contemplating staying on, making a scene, demanding access, using force - but in the end decided against it, and went home instead. 

He really needed time to think things through. 

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

Fortunately, Mary was out at some infant play group, chatting with other mums about nappies, nursing and baby slings, weighing the pros and cons of the latter against prams. Lord Almighty! 

John very much appreciated this rare moment of solitude, as Mycroft's words had shaken him more than he had at first be willing to acknowledge. 

So, what did he want? 

To carry on as before, with wife and child, and Sherlock as his naughty bit on the side? 

Or was he ready to give up his slightly boring, but well-ordered suburban life as husband, father, doctor - to be with Sherlock? 

Could he handle that? 

He knew, of course, that people got divorced all the time - half his friends did - but hadn't he wanted to make a difference? Especially against the background of the hellish marriage his own parents had endured... 

And what about his daughter? Well, to be honest, at the moment, she was definitely Mary's baby. His wife effectively kept him away from her, giving him the distinct feeling of being too clumsy to handle the little girl - and he allowed her to. What did that say about his capacity as a father? 

Next, his job. Well, sod it. It was alright to make a living but after the thrill of solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes treating coughs and measles wasn't either exciting nor rewarding. He'd once become a doctor to help people, perhaps even to make the world a better place by fulfilling more of a calling than a profession, but in his current position he mostly dealt with overanxious parents or lonely pensioners. 

More crucial, he thought, was the question if he felt ready to be with Sherlock permanently again, now that their relationship had become physical? 

In the past he had enjoyed being friends with the brilliant madman. Even living with body parts not only in the fridge, violin concerts at 3 am and acid burns on the kitchen floor or his favourite jumper or the sofa (just once) hadn't put John Watson off. Nor had being warned about Sherlock's temper and general personality deterred him from sharing a flat with the world's only consulting detective. Quite contrary, meeting Sherlock had unlocked something deep inside him, changing his whole life profoundly. 

But John also knew that these things were simply... not normal. As time went on, he had come to fear his life spinning out of control. And so he had left. He would very much liked to call his behavior a tactical retreat but deep down he knew that it had been nothing but a desperate escape. He had fled to the suburbs and to the respectability of a family and s steady job. 

But to no avail. He simply couldn't stay away from Sherlock. He had learned the hard way just how addicted he had become to their lifestyle of adrenaline, danger, surprises and excitement. And to the man himself - his gorgeous, beautiful, clever, insane, astonishing Sherlock. 

Having not to live with him every day, facing him over the breakfast table, bickering constantly, had shown John what he had lost - or, more truthfully, thrown away. 

And as it had dawned on him what could have been, John Watson had become first frustrated, and finally angry. So he had given in to his craving and desires and had just taken Sherlock, brutally and without mercy. He had wanted that for so long, even if he knew that it might destroy them both in the end. 

So, once again, could he handle both sides of their relationship - the day to day living with Sherlock, solving crimes and blogging about them on one hand, and his dark wants and needs to break that remarkable man, make him beg and whimper on the other? 

Jesus, what an utter mess his life had become! 

_\----------------------------------------------_

As his thoughts were only running in circles, John decided to call in a few favours to find out more about what happened to Sherlock. Screw you, Mycroft, and all your shadowy secrecy, I know some people too. 

After half an hour of combing through the contacts on his phone, John dug up a former colleague whose wife worked at St. Thomas's. She promised to enquire and call back. 

Suddenly, John was very worried. What had Mycroft meant when he said Sherlock had tripped? 

Please, god, don't let him have done something stupid! 

Surely, he wouldn't? 

Some very distinct scenarios unfolded in John's mind: 

Sherlock lying on the bathroom floor, a needle still stuck in his arm (overdose, just to annoy Mycroft). 

Sherlock with a bullet to his brain, the position of the hole to his head varying (he would know it being more effective to shoot oneself in the mouth but it made an awful mess, simply exploding your head, and Sherlock was vain after all, so he would have chosen the temple, perhaps just ending up with severe brain damage). 

Sherlock's pale body, floating in bright red water in a claw footed tub, wrists ripped savagely open up to the elbows and, just to make sure, the veins on his ankles opened as well. 

Jesus, please, no! 

When the phone rang, John nearly jumped. 

But as it turned out, Sherlock had been stabbed. John's source had not been able to obtain the full medical record (Mycroft, again!) but there was talk about multiple knife wounds, severe blood loss, a collapsed lung and a punctured liver. It sounded rather grim. Apparently, the brother ( _"such a nice chap, everybody's so sorry for him"_ ) was preparing for the worst. 

_\------------------------------------------------_

Next on John's calling list was Lestrade. 

"I had to find out from the papers, Greg! What's going on? Why did you keep me out of the loop? I thought we were pals." 

"Well, John," Lestrade had the decency to sound at least a bit embarrassed, "we all got the impression that you dropped out, with your wife and kid and all." 

"I just got married!" 

"But you rarely work cases together anymore. We all thought that the two of you fell out or something." 

"Why would you think that?" 

"To be honest, John, Sherlock at crime scenes these days is worse than before he met you. I don't know how to put it, he seems to lack the joy he got from showing off. He's just a nasty piece of shit most of the time, insulting everybody but without his usual verve. And when asked about you, he just snorts or raises one of his eyebrows. And that's it. So, perhaps you can tell me what happened between you two?" 

"Nothing!" John sounded defensive, even to his own ears. 

There was a pronounced silence at the other end of the line. 

"Anyway," John continued, "I was calling you to find out what happened last night. No one will tell me." 

"Did you ask Mycroft?" 

"Yes." 

"And?" 

"As I said, nothing." 

"Well, I'm not sure if I should be talking to you, then..." 

"Greg, it's me, John, your friend!" 

Lestrade sighed. 

"Allright. He ran off on his own, encountered the thug at a derelict building in Bermondsey, did not call or wait for backup, well, you can imagine, you know how he can be. Thank god he was at least able to press the call button on his mobile but it took us 20 minutes to trace the signal and locate him. He looked... not good. There was blood everywhere, his clothes were soaked with it..." 

"Yes, thank you, I get the picture." 

"Well, you asked, mate." Lestrade fell silent. "You know, this would not have happened if you had been with him." 

"Oh, thanks, now I'm feeling much better." 

"Sorry, but I thought we were talking about Sherlock, not pampering your ego." Lestrade sounded rather miffed. 

"Yeah, sorry, of course we are. It's just, everybody has a go at me today, blames me, gives me shit." 

"Well, perhaps there's a grain of truth in it? As I said, if you hadn't abandoned him..." 

"Fuck you, I did not abandon him! We were not a couple. He was not my damsel in distress and I was certainly not his sodding knight in shining armour! No one will ever be able to save Sherlock from himself." 

Silence again. 

"What?" 

"John, I think he's doing drugs again. But, for god's sake, don't tell his brother. He'll kill him." 

"Not if Sherlock gets himself killed first." 

They hung up. 

God, what a day! 

_\---------------------------------------------------------------_

John did not wait for Mary's return. He just scribbled her a note, trying to explain what had happened and went back to the hospital. 

There was no sign of Mycroft, who had presumably returned to his office to deal with one or two international hot spots to unwind from his worries but 'Anthea' had been left on watch, guarding Sherlock, Blackberry in hand. 

"Not even for five minutes?" John was down to actually pleading but Mycroft’s aide barely glanced at him, displaying one of her vague dismissive smiles and just shaking her head. 

So John sat down next to her on a pale green plastic hospital chair and started waiting. 

That seemed to surprise her. She peered at him sideways, typing suddenly a little bit faster. 

15 minutes later an attendee of Mycroft Holmes guided John towards a black car waiting in front of the hospital, to cart him off to the Diogenes Club. 

"John!" Mycroft exclaimed, a little warily. "Second time around today." 

"Lestrade told me what happened." 

"And?" Sherlock's brother sounded annoyed, as if personally offended by the inspector's loquacity. 

"Does everybody blame me?" 

Mycroft had to think this over for a whole minute. 

"Sherlock doesn't," he answered finally. 

"Yeah, but he wouldn't admit to anything so pedestrian as hurt or need or loneliness." John said bitterly. 

Mycroft looked John over for another minute, than seemed to slump just a little bit as exhaustion showed briefly in his features. Knowing the man and his tactics, John wasn't fooled by Mycroft dropping his mask for a few seconds but nevertheless wondered why Sherlock's brother had revealed his feelings to him in this unprecedented frankness. 

He got his answer when Mycroft spoke again, softly and a bit desperate. 

"He needs you, John. The events of last night should have proven this to you." 

"They did." 

"Oh." Mycroft seemed dumbfounded, as if he couldn't believe getting the answer he had been hoping for. Of course he regained his composure swiftly, enquiring: "So, what did you conclude from this realisation?" 

"A divorce might take about a year. What are the requirements for an annulment?" 

"You'll meet them." Mycroft assured him. 

_\------------------------------------------------------_

**John's letter to Mary:**

_"Dear Mary,_  
_how can a marriage work if neither participant speaks the truth?_  
_When we met, we were both looking for something we thought the other could provide: I wanted peace and quiet, you wanted a baby._  
_At least you got what you longed for._  
_But for me, I wonder how one romantic night with you could have turned into 18 month?_  
_Well, we had some memorable days; but just not very many._  
_Not as I had with Sherlock._  
_I'm not sorry I met you, but I'm neither sorry it's over._  
_I'm just not sorry, and there's nothing more to say._  
_Mycroft Holmes will handle my affairs from now on. A solicitor will be in touch._  
_Goodbye_  
_John"_

Signed and sealed, John handed the thick creamy envelope to Mycroft. 

"She'll get sole custody, of course." 

"Yeah, I suppose that's only fair. I don't see myself as a very devoted father anyway." 

Mycroft looked sceptic and John avoided his eye. 

"Can I see him now, please?" 

"Of course." 

_\-------------------------------------------------------_

As long as he had been unconcious, Sherlock had been bearable. But after waking up, his mood deteriorated from annoying to insufferable fairly quickly. 

So Sherlock Holmes was discharged form St. Thomas's Hospital rather sooner than later, especially as John Watson declared himself free and willing to take care of the convalescent back home at Baker Street. 

Sherlock was weak and therefore irritable the first few days. He hated being in need of help and assistance, putting his relationship with John in reversal. 

So one evening, in a very black mood, he just shouted: "For god's sake, stop fussing. Why don't you just go home, John?" 

"Because I am home, you prat!" 

"Oh!" 

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

As Sherlock heals, John suffers. 

Sherlock is very pale, very thin, sleeps a lot (!), is moody, niggling and displays extreme discontent with the slow progression of his recovery. He acts childish and stroppy, complains about the low quality of his painkillers (well, tough luck, but a junkie just doesn't get a prescription for opiates), the boredom of having to stay in bed all day, the crap telly ("dullness extraordinaire!" God, John thinks, he's reached the phase of swearing in foreign languages!), the books John brings him ("'History of Torture?' Seriously, John, I read that when I was twelve." "I should have known!"). 

But, of course, most of all he complains about being forced to eat regular meals. John insists on a nutritious and healthy diet to get him back on his feet as soon as possible. Therefore mealtimes become a point of nearly endless and abysmal quarrel. 

The fifth morning home starts like this: 

"John, what's that supposed to be?" 

"Your breakfast." 

"Consisting of...?" 

"Well, as you are apparently the resident genius, deduce it." 

"Mmh, it looks like it's... stuff with... bits... in it?" Sherlock's head snaps up expectantly. "Are you trying to poison me?" He enquires, sounding a little bit intrigued. 

"No, actually I'm trying to feed you up, so I can tie you down again and spank your poncy backside - with your brother's blessing, I may add!" 

"And you are going about that by serving me - " Sherlock lets the milky substance drip from the spoon back into the bowl "- goo?" He looks appalled. 

And that gives John a marvelous idea. 

As he had not gotten off for more than two weeks, it only takes him a few resolute strokes in front of Sherlock's rather astonished face to jerk off, decorating the contents of the breakfast bowl with a quite impressive amount of come. When done, John reaches for the spoon, dips it in and holds it against Sherlock's tightly shut lips. 

"Open!" he orders. 

Sherlock shudders and turns his face away, so John smacks him - hard - with his free right hand. Sherlock's head is thrown sideways by the impact. 

"Eat!" 

Sherlock seems a little dazed by now, his cheek showing a bright red mark where John's hand has hit him. Very reluctantly, he opens his mouth. 

John shoves the spoon in. 

"Swallow!" 

He makes Sherlock eat up - encouraging him with a few more severe slaps every time his appetite indicates to falter. 

Only when the bowl is empty John strokes Sherlock's curls, murmuring: "When you're up again, I think I'll get you a collar and have you kneeling next to my chair at the dining table, watching, as you lick your food from a plate at my feet. How would you like that?" 

Sherlock purrs. 

"I thought so." There's a smile in John's voice. 

"John?" Sherlock sounds vacant. "What was it, by the way?" 

"Peach yoghurt." 

"Ah." 

"I hope you learned your lesson, though. No more whinging about eating. Or I'll make you." 

In response to that, a sly smile spreads over Sherlock's face and John is suddenly not that sure if his has been a marvelous idea. 

Maybe, he thinks to himself, I have won a battle but lost the war? 

But then he thinks: Well, that's the story of my life somehow, isn't it? 


	15. A little bit of what you fancy doesn't do you any good at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is back and Sherlock - even if still somewhat incapacitated - is utterly willing and quite eager to comply.

John is back. He's really back. For good. Sherlock doesn't understand but allows himself to feel... auspiciously content. If he would be honest with himself, he would consent to be alleviated by John's presence. A few weeks ago, this was all he' d dreamed of and longed for: John moving back in with him.

He has no guilty conscience because of Mary. To tell the truth, Sherlock has always been certain that he suited John far better then his pliant wife. John needs excitement and defiance, which both is provided naturally by Sherlock quite liberally.

Sherlock never wholly got around to why John had to leave and marry anyone, especially someone as ordinary as Mary. Ok, he had known that John wanted sex on a regular basis but even he is aware that this prerogative doesn't necessarily require tying the knot, moving to the suburbs and fathering a child.

Now Sherlock is equally perturbed by John's return. As he didn't understand why John had left, he is perplexed as to why John came back to Baker Street. Was he not happy in his new circumstances? Did he miss his freedom? Was he longing for the adrenaline rushes from crime fighting? Or had it something to do with their recent physical entanglement?

Sherlock is out of his depth due to lack of data. What does John expect him to do? How should he behave? He settles on business as usual, i.e. drifting between annoying and pesky, trying to provoke a reaction from John, succeeding rather spectacularly.

Now Sherlock knows where they stand. He starts to perceive and understand the shifting dynamics between them. And he slowly discovers that he likes what John is doing to and with him. As he lacks either any kind of knowledge or inhibition, he feels strangely safe under John's administrations.

After the yoghurt incident, they start to slowly explore their boundaries and limitations. For example, Sherlock genuinely despises being tied down. He does not get off on being restraint physically but instead wants to be conquered and overwhelmed and then surrender himself to whatever John has in mind. The not-knowing-part sparks his arousal much more then being helpless and at John's mercy.

John, on the other hand, gets his kicks primarily out of conquering this brilliant, amazing, arrogant man, pulling down his barriers, taking him apart, exposing him. He detests the use of toys and accessories, as they turn the act of breaking someone into something cheap and cheesy. Reducing Sherlock to a panting, begging mess is quite challenging and the reward utterly erotic.

Of course, as Sherlock has been seriously wounded, they have to be careful - at least at first. There will be no hitting or rough fucking in the near future. They both get a bit restless because of the unresolved sexual tension that is starting to built up in 221b.

John watches Sherlock closely, waiting for signs of him being close to snap. He wonders how long it will take for Sherlock to either provoke him into action again or to literally get on his knees and start begging.

As it turns out, he should have given more credit to his flatmetas ingenuity. As John comes home one afternoon, carrying the shopping up the stairs, he is surprised to find the couch in the living room vacant. Sherlock had been reclined on it when John had left.

"Sherlock?" John shouts, but gets no answer.

He puts the bags on the kitchen table and proceeds towards Sherlock's room, to find his door ajar.

"Sherlock?" he asks again, pushing the door open.

The site awaiting him takes his breath away. Sherlock is naked, sprawled out on the bed, pale skin and long limbs against dark blue sheets. His legs are splayed open, the left bent on the knee, giving John quite an eye full. Sherlock is lazily stroking his hard cock with his right hand, his left tucked behind his head. He is looking daringly at John, not blinking or averting his gaze. His eyes are dark, his brow slightly sweaty. As John watches him he parts his red swollen mouth and bites down on his lower lip. John's breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock's cock is straining, the wet glans fully exposed. John knows he's here as a spectator, invited to watch a deliciously filthy display, so he stands by the bed and gazes down as Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, a soft moan escaping his plush mouth.

"Don't come. Wait till you are told."

At John's words, Sherlock's back arches of the bed and a thick clear drop of precome dribbles down his shaft, adding a bit of welcome lubricant to his administration. He speeds up his hand, panting, but his eyes are open and on John's now, waiting obediently for permission to loose himself.

John enjoys watching Sherlock's long, strong fingers grasp his cock tightly, rubbing over the head with his thumb. He's close, John can see that but he doesn't want it to be over this soon.

"Slow down."

Sherlock's hand slows a bit reluctantly and he loosens his grip somewhat, until he stops stroking himself completely, letting his hand wander down to his balls, sweeping his fingertips over his perineum. His other hand moves over his body, stroking his chest and abdomen.

"Tell me what to do, John." He breaths in his deep baritone. "What do you want me to do?"

John is transfixed. His voice comes out horse and guttural: "Put two fingers in your mouth."

Sherlock obeys, starting to suck on his right fore and middle finger, leaving his cock and balls unattended until his left hand moves down to the vacant spot, taking over avariciously. Sherlock stares at John from heavy lidded eyes while slickening his fingers with spit, pulling them lasciviously out between his wet lips before pushing them in his mouth again, moaning, writhing.

"God, you are so fucking hot." John murmurs as he watches Sherlock licking at his fingers while fondling his testicles with apparent pleasure.

"That's enough." John decides finally. "Now, put them up your arse."

Sherlock spreads his legs even wider and draws both knees up, planting his feed firmly on the mattress. He's lying open and very exposed as he pushes his two glistening wet fingers in without hesitation, grinding down against them with visible enjoyment. Soon he his matching the pushes of his fingers with the strokes to his cock, rocking up in his fist, moaning unashamed.

His cheeks have turned slightly pink, eyes dark and shiny and John's thinks he could drown in this gorgeous beauty, this uninhibited show of want and need and totally blissed out pleasure.

"Come for me!" He whispers, his voice tight, and watches in amazement as Sherlock let's go and just fucks himself on his own fingers, pushing in palm deep, then pulling nearly out, stretching his whole, scissoring his fingers, twisting them inside his tight passage. He seems on the edge of crying as his fist flies erratic on his cock. He starts to loose his rhythm but doesn't seem to care, shouting John's name as he spurts hot come over his hand and belly.

John waits until he has calmed down a fraction, then bows down, swipes his fingers through the mess and pushes them between Sherlock's pliant lips, who eagerly sucks them clean.

"Let me suck you off." Sherlock pleads, offering, demanding and John just can't master any more self contro. He unzips his trousers, pulls his hard cock out and shoves it down Sherlock's throat, who does not complain, just slackens his jaw a bit to comfortably accommodate John's girth, taking him as far in until John's balls crush against Sherlock's chin. He feels himself splutter, saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth but he can't be bothered. This is hot and dirty and he wants it so much, wants John so much, wants to do everything, anything, without thinking, without remorse; he just wants to do as he is told, pleasuring John, who knows exactly what he wants and needs; this is perfect, so perfect, he looses himself completely, his mind going blank as he feels John gripping his hair and a few moments later, as the grip tightens to just this side of pleasurably painful, Sherlock feels John's cock harden, then pulse and he swallows all, savouring the taste and sensation of John's come in his mouth.

As John releases him, Sherlock looks up at his face and is met with a dazed and vacant stare. John strokes his thumb down Sherlock's cheek, breathes "Fucking amazing" and bends down to plant a chaste kiss to Sherlock's sore lips.

"You are full of surprises, Sherlock Holmes." John smiles at him.

"So I've been told." Sherlock retorts smugly.

He allows himself to indulge in the distinct feeling that everything will be fine - eventually.


	16. A love worth keeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know what life is about? It's not about some big revelations, eternal truths, or deep insight. It's about last minutes and lost evenings, about fire in our bellies and furtive little feelings. In short, it's about love." But for some, this is quite difficult to accept.

"Really, John, the sheer stupidity accumulated at this crime scene! I wonder how they are able to tie their shoelaces! Anderson didn't even recognise the foot prints as I pointed him directly towards them. How he finds his way home daily is a miracle!"

"You not so much pointed as dragged him by the arm and shoved his face down in the flower bed by the back of his neck." John corrected.

Sherlock simply ignored this and talked over Johns comment. "And Donovan! For god's sake! She wouldn't spot a lead if it kicks her in the face! No wonder she went to bed with Anderson. They have so much in common, they should rather get married."

"They can't."

"Well, no, of course, they can't. Their children would be barely able to control their bodily functions..." 

"Now, that's rather nasty." John sniggered nonetheless. "I meant, Anderson is already married."

"Is this a pot and kettle thing? Otherwise, I can't imagine anybody tying themselves willingly to such a moron."

They were seated in the back of a cab on their way home to Baker Street, after once again helping the police with their inquiries at a scene of an apparent double murder in Wimbledon ( _"If your blog post about this includes references to rackets, nets, or Tennis in general, I'm moving out." Sherlock had declared, only to add a moment later: "No, in fact, you'll be the one moving out!"_ ). Sherlock had deduced that the perpetrator had been the gardener within five minutes after arriving at the house, exclaiming: "The wheelbarrow! Has any of your cretins thought about the wheelbarrow?" earning him spiteful looks and, after extrapolating - i.e. showing off - his train of thoughts, warm thanks, at least from Lestrade.

Now Sherlock felt giddy, even hyper, and bathed in Johns obvious admiration. That was the reason why, when they reached their flat, he spun around, pressed John against the closed door of their living room and snogged him thoroughly. Only when he had to gasp for breath did Sherlock remember that they just were "not like this". Their affair was intense, passionate but not in the least romantic or tender. It was about controlled release, about taking one another apart in a set scenario and did absolutely not encompass spontaneous eruptions of affection like kissing, hugging, or - god forbid - cuddling.

Realising this with a pang, Sherlock pulled back and glanced at John part unsure, part apologising.

"I am sorry, John, that was most inappropriate."

John just looked back at him with an expression on his face Sherlock couldn't read.

"It's ok." John finally retorted but Sherlock had turned away by then, hanging up his coat and making for the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked matter of factly, trying to sound detached.

John watched him puttering with mugs, teabags and the kettle, without as much as waiting for John's answer.

"Sherlock?"

The man in the kitchen stilled but did not turn around.

"Look, John, I just got carried away. I'm sure you have a perfect punishment worked out for my disobedience and I am also very sure that I deserve it." He pressed his hands flat on the kitchen counter, squaring his back. "So, how do you want me?"

John stood very still, looking at the thin silhouette of Sherlock in their dimly lit kitchen, just standing there, waiting for him to use him as he pleased - and it broke his heart.

Slowly, John went over to him, just very slightly touching Sherlock's shoulder.

"Would you please turn around?" John asked softly.

Hesitant, Sherlock faced him. The kettle clicked as it had reached boiling point but no one payed it the slightest attention.

John cupped Sherlock's face carefully with his left hand.

"Listen, Sherlock, I am not sure what this thing between us consists of but I'll be damned if you ever again feel the need to apologise for kissing me." And with that, John stepped even closer and claimed Sherlock's mouth with his own, biting tenderly, licking his way eagerly inside, until he felt Sherlock shiver and melt into him with a soft moan.

When they separated, Sherlock's face was flushed a delicate pink, his eyes wide and dark, looking at John in utter wonder. John stroked his cheek with his left thumb and then announced boldly: "Sherlock Holmes, you are the most amazing, beautiful and graceful creature I have encountered in my whole life. May I take you to bed?"

Sherlock just nodded, bewildered, and willingly let John guide him to his bedroom.

There, John started to undress him by leisurely unbuttoning his shirtfront, kissing his throat, his freckled shoulders, his chest, brushing the fabric off of him with firm hands, stroking down his back before cupping his buttocks firmly, pressing Sherlock hard against his body.

"God," John whispered while licking up Sherlock's long pale neck, "god, how could I ever have gone without you?"

His fingers scrambled over Sherlock's trousers, opening his belt and fly before shoving them down.

"Lie down."

And Sherlock retreats to his bed, spreads himself out on the soft sheets while he watches John shedding his cloths as well, quickly, as if it is urgent for him to mirror Sherlock in his state of nudity.

When Johns crawls on top of Sherlock it's all warm skin and tender touches, soft kisses and attentive strokes. They are both loosing themselves in this new, unfamiliar way of being together, unguarded, even a bit shy and clumsy. No one's leading, no one is in control, John's not dominating and Sherlock's not submissive. Tey are rather both exploring each other like they never have before and it feels odd but they dare not to think what it means that they have just thrown their regular approach to sex over board, in favour of these so much more intimate advances.

They sigh and moan, grinding against each other and when John looks down in Sherlock's strangely beautiful eyes, he is confronted with disbelieve, weary - and want, so much want and longing that John has to close his own eyes to not just shatter here and now. He can feel Sherlock's long bony fingers flutter across his back, still not sure if he's allowed to touch and behave this way but unable to control himself.

They are both lowering their defenses, opening up to one another and Sherlock desperately fears it might destroy everything he has with John. He can't process these silly feelings and the futile sentiment arising, fuelled by every stroke, kiss and gentle murmur, given and received. However, they both won't stop.

On the contrary, things get rather heated when John puts his fingers around Sherlock's cock and starts to fist him with gusto. Sherlock squirms and writhes, arching up from the bed as he comes, eyes screwed shut, mouth slack, throwing his head back, looking downright debauched and sated afterward.

Therefore it's only being polite, after getting at least some of his breath back, that Sherlock is quite motivated to return the favour, stroking John, who leans over him. He willingly lets John come all over his face and chest when he eventually climaxes.

It is messy, it is a tiny bit weird - and it just feels glorious. They both gaze at each other slightly perturbed and then grin ecstatically. John licks his own come from Sherlock's lips as he kisses him again, unable to stop smiling stupidly.

"May I declare something?" John asks lightheaded and therefor careless.

Sherlock just blinks at him, his face unmoving, giving nothing away, once more retreating behind his walls.

"Don't! Stay with me! Please, Sherlock, do not let this go bye without hearing me out."

Sherlock shakes his head and does his best to focus on John, who still smiles as he caresses Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb.

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I don't deserve you, I have absolutely no idea how to keep you but I am head over heals in love with you and I think you should know that, as I might act adamant to it in the future. So, could you save it to this strange big brain of yours that I am totally taken in by you, that I will never leave you but instead want to spent the rest of my life with you?"

There's no response. Sherlock blinks. He swallows, blinks again; licks his lips as if to give a sharp retort, even opens his mouth but then clasps it shut again, averting his gaze.

After a long moment, he starts to speak, his voice hoarse: "John, I really don't know how to deal with this... revelation." He pushes himself to a siting position; his hands start fidgeting. "I can cope with our... scenarios... But I am not sure how to deal with this... sentiment. I am not used to this kind of susceptibilities. It is an enormous burden. I am not famous for keeping other people close, let alone happy, so this outburst of yours just leaves me... perilously unguarded."

"Well, what do you think I'm feeling at the moment?" John asks unassuming. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for John to elaborate, so he does him the favour and attempts an explanation: "You know what life is about? It's not about some big revelations, eternal truths or deep insight. It's about last minutes and lost evenings, about fire in our bellies and furtive little feelings. In short, it's about love. Yes, feelings, Sherlock. That's what makes us human. And, even if you do not like to acknowledge it, you are a human being, perhaps more human than most people. So, could you perhaps try to embrace the idea that there might be more to us than just a base desire to copulate?"

Sherlock looks at John for nearly a minute. John feels unable to breath, guessing this might be one of these moments that will define their future life.

"I am sorry, John." Sherlock genuinely sounds perturbed as he finally speaks again, "But I came to the conclusion a long time ago that caring is not an advantage."


	17. Unloveable?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is a dangerous disadvantage, found on the loosing side. Isn't it?

John feels rather gobsmacked.

Sherlock, realising the sudden change of mood, sits up and starts to leave the warm, dishevelled bed, kicking back the soiled sheets, grimacing. He turns his back to John, impatiently brushing back his hair, sighs, exclaims "I'm sorry", again ( _he, who would normally rather bite off his tongue than repeat himself_ ) and goes to the en suite, locking the door firmly behind him.

There he stands in the cold bright light, watching his reflection in the mirror, looking hard, holding his breath until he feels actually a bit dizzy. 

What the hell has he gotten himself into?

This is getting perilous!

This is getting far to close!

Stop it! 

Now! 

_Run!_

He grips the rim of the washbasin, retching, unable to force down the bile raising in his throat. He vomits until tears run down his face and his stomach burns, all the while hoping not to alert John on the other side of the door but being past actually caring.

Finally, he steps in the shower on wobbly legs and lets icy cold water run down his body until he feels nothing anymore, just a blissful numbness of body and mind.

He truly hopes that John has left his bed by now. But to his surprise and dismay, he had apparently waited, unwilling to retreat and part. 

John's brow is furrowed, a sharp crease forming above his nose. He squats on the mattress, knees pulled up to his chest, elbows resting on them, head slightly bowed, but he looks up when Sherlock enters the room, clad only in a towel around his waist.

"You are still here?" Sherlock asks coldly, going for offending with an undertone of annoyance.

"Obviously." John retorts, sounding fed up, flat and tired.

Sherlock fixes his gaze on a spot above John's head as he states in his best > 'god-you-are-obviously-an-imbecile'-voice : "John, I will only explain this once. I don't do 'boyfriends', or 'lovers', or any other oversentimental, oh-so-endearing, sickeningly sweet relationship entanglements." He spits the repelling words out in genuine disgust. "I thought I had made that quite clear. It is therefore frankly totally beyond me how you, of all people, can come to think otherwise, even entertaining romantic notions!" 

"That's why you just threw up in the bathroom? 'Cause this all makes you so fucking sick?" John's hands gesture between the two of them.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouts, the single syllable cutting sharply through the air, thick with contempt and disillusioned desire, hitting home.

"Liar!" John yells back at him, his face stern, eyes blazing. "You are just a sodding coward, Sherlock Holmes! I'd never have taken you for such a wimpy sissy."

Sherlock snorts and turns away, displaying total disinterest while sorting through underwear and socks in his dresser.

"I have seen you lying in this very bed with me not half an hour ago, looking up at me with such need in your eyes... And now you give me this shit! Shall I get my belt out and beat you sore? Would you prefer that to a reasonable conversation between two adults who have been sleeping together for quite a while? Could it be that the great self-proclaimed sociopath in this room can only deal with kinky scenes but is very much afraid of the little word love?"

"You clearly watch to much crap tellie with Mrs Hudson, John." Sherlock murmurs under his breath.

"I left my wife and child for you. Don't you think you could at least spare me two minutes of your precious time and mind-blowing insight in human behaviour and just explain WHAT. YOU. WANT?" John raises his voice at the last three words.

Sherlock throws whatever ridiculously expensive item of clothing he had been retrieving from the drawer back inside and spins around.

"I want what I always want: excitement, input, sensation. Not dull sentiment and boring affection. You provided the first quite satisfactory up until now. But don't get me wrong, if you start to develop feelings and embrace the latter, we are done." With that, he walks over to the bedroom door and opens it, ushering John out with one small, precise cue of his hand.

John gets up very slowly. As he comes to stand starkers in front of Sherlock he eyes the lean body up and down, straightening his back to his full height, then gets even closer, stepping deliberately into Sherlock's personal space, holding his gaze firmly: "I invaded Afghanistan. I am not a coward, Sherlock Holmes."

"No, just an obviously overconfident plonker with an inferiority complex, who's trying to deal with his PTSD by being overly compassionate toward equally endangered and disturbed individuals, thus compensating his lack of connection with the more sane aspects of ordinary life." Sherlock stage-whsipers in his usually aloof provoking fashion, trying to deflect by insulting his opponent.

But John just ignores him and his attempts to rile him up, being used to such tactics.

"And I might not be a genius but I know when I'm told bollocks." That said, he turns in quite a military stance, marching out of Sherlock's room and up the stairs, not looking back, leaving a confused and slightly unsettled consulting detective behind.

\--------------------------------------

John endeavours to sublimate his irritation by aggressively dressing himself in a comparatively dull beige jumper, chequered shirt and jeans, yearning desperately for a hot shower, which, unfortunately, is located right next to his peevish flatmate's bedroom, out of which he got verbatim thrown not ten minutes ago, so creeping downstairs and sneaking into the bath is absolutely not an option if John ever wants to look at himself with his dignity intact in any gleaming surface again.

Same goes for coffee, tea, or food in general, as Sherlock's room opens to the kitchen. Detesting victorian architecture, abhorring mid-century conversions and loathing the layout of their flat in general, John is forced to flee downstairs and outside to get some space and perhaps something to eat from a take away.

As he walks the darkening London streets in a slight drizzle he suddenly craves an average Thursday evening down at a pub with a few mates, so he gets out his phone and scrolls through his contacts, rapidly realising that there are actually very few people he can ring up spontaneously to ask out for a pint. 

What happened to all his friends from the army, Blackheath and Bart's? Well, he sacrificed them for his mental flatmate and their lifestyle of late night chases and sudden calls to crime scenes, and the few who kept hanging around even through this stage of his life he finally alienated when he left Mary. 

Besides, he wants company that isn't one way or another associated with Sherlock. That rules out Molly, Lestrade and, of course, Mycroft - well, imagining Mycroft in a pub with a pint and a pack of crisps is asking too much of John anyway. Meeting up with Harry would just mean swapping one plague for another. So, in the end, he calls Mike Stamford, hoping very badly that he will be free.

Fortunately, he is, and as he's still at Bart's and just about to finish, they agree to meet at the Globe pub on the corner of Baker and Marylebone Street, not John's regular but a rather big and therefore luckily neutral venue.

John is early and gets himself an IPA, crouching at the Bar and watching the other patrons: couples, groups of blokes, groups of chicks, one or two loners just like him. Sherlock would be able to tell him exactly how long the couples have been together, what they had for dinner, where they live; their jobs and income, as well as the marital and menstrual status of the women, and if the solitary figures hanging about the pub were in fact waiting for someone or just attempting to suggest so as not to show their loneliness quite so obvious.

For fuck's sake, John curses himself, can't he just forget about the dickhead for long enough while h waits in a pub for meeting a pal? He'd wanted something normal, something explicitly seperated from Sherlock and his sodding deductions - had in fact had enough of them for one day, thank you very much!

Luckily, before John can brood more intensely over these aspects of his life, Mike arrives and they set out on an evening filled with pints (drunk), darts (played) and football (discussed and found lacking enthusiasm, loosing its soul with the expansion of modern tactics). It's so relaxed and unoffensive that John could cry for missing out on this for such a long time.

Only once does Mike casually enquire after Sherlock and the short answer he receives, accompanied by John's dark look, shuts him up on this subject very quickly.

Around ten Mike announces that he has to leave; being a Thursday, he, other than John, has to go to work tomorrow. But John doesn't feel the least ready to go back to Baker Street, facing Sherlock, or, more likely, being greeted by an empty flat and cold silence.

So he stays on after Mike has left, gets himself another pint and leans at the now much less crowded bar. As his eyes wander over the remaining guests, he catches a smile from a charmingly plump redhead with dimples and starting blue eyes, who then comes up to him, standing so close that he can smell her perfume. She still smiles as she turns to the bar man, ordering a Gin Tonic.

"Hello." She greets John, who is instantly taken aback by her straightforwardness.

"Hello." He replies rather lamely.

"Well, you are not really in the mood to get off with someone, are you?"

"Ehm, no, actually not. Is it that obvious?"

She just nods but is still smiling at him, as if waiting for some sign or revelation that might turn her late night attempt at copping off with this indifferent stranger worthwhile. John starts to feel a bit uneasy.

"Listen, I honestly appreciate the afford but I had a really shitty day and would very much prefer to just drink in peace."

"Oh, you think you had a shitty day? Well, I think I can easily outstrip you there." She retorts, raising an eyebrow as she tries to go for cheeky.

John's suddenly fed up: "Now, do you? Did your day as well start with two mutilated corpses followed by a row with your flatmate, with whom you afterwards made out in his bed rather passionately before he remembered to reclaim his status as high-functioning sociopath, thus complementing you out of his room rather rudely, forcing you to hang out at a pub were you got chatted up by a fat middle-aged tart?"

John does not wait for an answer, just puts his glas down and turns, leaving a heavily breathing red-faced woman clinging onto her Gin Tonic behind as he makes for the door.

Even a flat with a sulking Sherlock in it can't be as unsettling as being a single man in a pub filled with lonely tipsy women.

\----------------------------------------------------------

It's just after half past ten when John returns to 221b. As he climbs the stairs, he can hear Sherlock play his violin but it's not one of the familiar classical tunes, it rather sounds like simple scratching, indicating that Sherlock might be deep in thought.

John does not bother to look in on him but makes straight for his room, undresses and climbs into his bed, pulling the sheets tight around himself. Despite the rather confusing and mostly unpleasant day, the pints he had lull him to sleep quite comfortably.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Downstairs, Sherlock had of course registered John's arrival and his very pronounced bypassing of the living room with himself in it. He continued unconsciously mistreating his instrument, thus diverting his train of thought away from his displeasing domestic situation, concentrating on some cold cases he had nicked from Lestrade for rainy days.

Under normal circumstances this should have worked quite well as a sufficient distraction but now, with John undeniably in bed upstairs, Sherlock begins to wonder if his behaviour earlier this evening has been appropriate.

He still can't understand what had gotten into John to become so... affectionate. John, who had beaten, gagged and punished him, who had enjoyed to subject Sherlock to any dark and obscene fantasy he had entertained, ignoring boundaries and protests; John, who had given Sherlock so many new sensations to ponder, who had supplied him with drugs and fed him his come, had suddenly acted... considerate, fond and tenderhearted. 

Sherlock shudders.

He can deal with pain. He can deal with humiliation. But he can't for the love of god deal with emotions. John's sentiment terrifies him more than all the slightly deranged things they had been up to in bed lately.

Sherlock tells himself that he had hoped for an amusing diversion, testing his limitations and exploring some of his seldom acknowledged sinful desires but not in his wildest dreams had he imagined John falling actually in love with him. It scares him stiff to be so absolutely out of control and at his wits end.

How had this all so totally gone to hell?

He needs to think. He needs a plan. And, most importantly, he needs to get a firm grip on this very unsavoury situation.


	18. I can fuck up anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a very stupid idea. But then, he's an idiot...

Just give me one fine day of plain sailing weather  
And I can fuck up anything, anything.  
It was a wonderful life when we were together,  
And now I've fucked up every little goddamn thing.

_-Plain Sailing Weather-_

________________________________________________________________

Sherlock had been absolutely sure that his plan was brilliant. It was destined to show John the incentive of keeping Sherlock as a friend with benefits, while on the other hand putting a safe distance between the two of them and thereby preventing their dealings from becoming too affectionate.

_This might be a good time to point out that Sherlock had honestly no experience to speak off in this particular area. He was also an idiot, who risked his life to prove he was clever. That said, one might guess that his brilliant plan had, in fact, some serious flaws, for it was stupid and slightly disturbing._

Sherlock had decided on wearing the same clothes he had donned at the fake audition: black Converse, tight black jeans sitting low on his slim hips and an old faded t-shirt that was just a fraction too short, allowing a glimpse at the firm white skin underneath.

Dressed like this it was easy to jump the queue, entering the club shortly after midnight, as the buzz hit peak level and the whole dark vault was vibrating with an all encompassing energy. He felt the music more than he heard it, the base hitting him right in the guts, the deep static noise making his head swim.

He did not bother making for the bar but went straight for the dancefloor. There, he simply drowned in light, sound and motion, swallowed by an anonymous crowd of sweaty, twitching bodies.

Sherlock wasn't picky. Anyone would do. And as it didn't take long before someone approached him with explicit intent, he had barely spend ten minutes at the club before he stood outside again, hailing a cab, a well build, blond, male thirty-something by his side.

“Your place or mine?” The stranger asked, sounding somewhat bewildered by his good fortune to cop off unexpectedly with such a gorgeous boy.

Sherlock had to suppress the instant urge to roll his eyes but still sounded irritated when he replied: “Mine, of course, as you are living in a musty bedsit in Peckham, walking out on your boyfriend after two years.”

“How...?”

“Never mind. Let's go.”

With that, Sherlock shoved the man into a cab that had materialised on the kerb, gave the driver the address and started rather forcefully snogging and groping his conquest (to the joyous surprise of the latter).

When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock almost dragged the man up the stairs, pushed him through the door of the flat, onto the sofa and lowered himself between the opened legs of the now heavily breathing bloke. Without a minute of hesitation Sherlock unzipped the stranger's trousers and got his cock out, swallowing it down in one swift movement – all the while making noise: banging the door against the wall, knocking over the coffee table and moaning loudly as he started his ministration.

“Jesus---!” His acquisition shouted. “You don't waste time, do you?”

Sherlock, mouth full of cock, could only groan in response, making a deep vibrating sound.

“Slow down a bit, will you, or this will soon be over.”

Sherlock pulled off and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“That would be rather unsatisfactory.” He stated.

“See? You have a beer?”

“Fridge.”

The man looked back at Sherlock blankly.

“Oh, for god's sake...” He got up reluctantly and went over to the kitchen, performing his duties as a host by taking a bottle from beneath the bag of thumbs – perhaps it was actually better that he got the drink, after all – pouring himself a glass of water.

Suddenly, Sherlock sensed a movement behind his back. Suddenly the man's fist grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, kissing down his strained neck. 

Sherlock turned around slowly, engaging in more kissing. Disappointingly, his guest seemed rather more interested in his beverage, so Sherlock let him take a few sips while drowning his water in one long gulp.

This was followed by more kissing, bordering more and more on biting, until Sherlock's head started to swim. He was aware that sexual stimulation could have this affect but to be honest that would give his opposite way to much credit, as the kisses were surely breathtaking but not in a mindblowing way.

Next, Sherlock's knees started to give out, and that was when he suspected something utterly unpleasant might be happening to him.

“I want to fuck you.” The stranger growled and Sherlcok would have been absolutely fine with this as it would have given him multiple opportunities to make noise. Despite his state of dizzyness that must have been the reason why he nodded, willingly removing his mouth from the nameless lips, pulling his t-shirt over his head, not bothering with kicking his shoes off as he reckoned it would be enough to just pull his jeans down to his knees.

As the man seized Sherlock rather roughly and bend him over the kitchen table, smashing his head onto the surface while holding his hands tightly together behind his back, Sherlock was taken again by surprise.

_'Okay', was the thought that crossed Sherlock's rather fuzzy mind, 'this is a bit unexpected...'_

Then his mind went blank as the man pushed in without any preparation. He had wanted to make a lot of noise, but the cry that escaped his mouth sounded too raw and desperate.

His face was slammed onto the desk again, and Sherlock tasted blood.

He heard the man grunt behind him: “You want it hard, you slut? You can get it hard.”

That said, he pounded into Sherlock without mercy. There was neither lube nor condom – not even spit – and Sherlock felt himself split open, his muscles tensing with every push, even as he told his body to relax, to adapt and just take it; that he had suffered worse and that it would soon be over.

“Keep your knees together, fuckhole! That's tighter.” The man's voice breathed wetly next to Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock tried not to scream again, swallowing the pain, closing his eyes and bearing the violation of his transport but his anatomical knowledge was doing him no good, as he registered clearly what was happening to his frail body: the ripping of his sphincter, the trickle of blood down his thighs, mixed with excrements, as the man above him fucked him deep and unrelenting, grunting, sweating, mumbling obscenities Sherlock had no capacities left to take in.

So he just lay there, lips pressed together, while being buggered, unable to move, to fight his attacker off, as he had no control over his limbs left. Letters and numbers lingered on the fringe of his barely conscious mind – C16H12FN3O3 – as he wondered why he was so totally helpless. He had a black belt, for god's sake, he should be able to stop this.

The man eventually removed his cock and Sherlock hoped that it was over only to be overcome by throbbing agony as he felt the man's fingers try to push back into him. His whole hand. Sherlock knew that he was on the fringe of blacking out any minute if this would not end immediately. Unable to stifle his sobs, he heard himself beg breathlessly: “Please, don't … please, stop it.” His voice came out slurred, sounding unfamiliar and ragged to his ears. Sherlock tried to wriggle out of the man's grip but his attacker just laughed and kicked his feet apart. It was useless. Sherlock felt his body spasm in fear.

As the man behind him stilled Sherlock anticipated the next wave of pain and closed his eyes. The man was actually really trying to push his whole fist in. Oh, god... how long might that take? When would this ordeal be finally over? Sherlock felt five fingertips breach his sore rim and was just able to let aut another whimper when he heard a familiar voice say very calmly:

“I think he told you to stop.”

As the man pulled away it felt like a hot iron rod was removed from Sherlock's abdomen. Then Sherlock's knees buckled, finally gaving out completely as he sank to the greasy kitchen floor, curling in on himself. When he looked up he saw John Watson pressing the nuzzle of his gun against the stranger's temple. Walking him back against the worktop, away from Sherlock and to the periphery of his line of view, he got a glimpse of the man's face, looking utterly overwhelmed and sick with fear.

“So, you like it a bit rough, do you?” John's voice was dangerously low.

The man just stared back at him, wideeyed, as he wiped his hand on his thigh.

“I asked you a question.” This friendly reminder was accompanied by a severe blow of the gun to the man's head. Blood flowed over his brow, convincing him to answer with a barely recognisably nod.

“Well, I happen to like it a bit rough, too.” John whispered softly, his predatory smile not reaching his eyes 

The sight of sheer terror on the man's face filled Sherlock with a kind of joy he wouldn't have thought himself capable of. God, John Watson was just amazing.

“So, I think we should go upstairs.” John nudged his gun ever so slightly against the man's jaw, directing him up to his room. Sherlock heard the floor boards creak, and then John's door squeaked as it was pulled shut. After that, there were just a few muffled sounds – cries? - and thudding clunks – blows? kicks? - before John emerged again, running down the steps, bowing over Sherlock, his voice and face anxious with worry.

“Hey, Sherlock?” he asked carefully, stroking Sherlock's sweaty dark curls back tenderly.

Sherlock licked his lips. It took him several attempts to answer. Finally, he croaked: “John...”

Just this one word but it conveyed all of his fear and pain along with his shame, humiliation and utter gratitude.

John touched his cheek, his hair, before - very carefully, lifting Sherlock from the floor, helping him gently to get up. As Sherlock finally stood upright, he felt so drowsy and disorientated that he stumbled over his trousers still clinging to his thighs as he he tried to walk to his bedroom. John gripped him tight and guided him along.

“John...” Sherlock muttered weakly.

“Yes? I'm right here.”

“I'm going to be sick.”

“It's ok, love.”

Sherlock did not make it to either sink or loo, he just threw up in the corridor leading to his bedroom, steadying himself with one hand to the wall. John just stroked his back, telling him it was all righ, and that he would clean up after him.

Eventually, when it was over, Sherlock was able to utter another word: “Flunitrazepam.”

“I know, love. Don't worry, it will wear off until you wake in the morning."

“Don't go away. Don't leave me alone.” Sherlock clung desperately to John's arm.

“I won't. Get into bed. Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning, you stupid, stupid git.”


	19. But heaven knows I'm miserable now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after, they both try to come to terms with what happened the night before.

When Sherlock emerged from a dreamless state of unconsciousness about midday, he was in pain. At first, the ache seemed unspecified, inhibiting his whole body but as he reluctantly became more awake, he also became more aware of the precise locations of his ailments.

His head pounded; his mouth tasted as if something woolly had died in there and when he tried to shift beneath the sheets, he experienced a hot, piercing twinge shooting up his spine. He dared not to open his eyes, in fear of coming round fully, having to face what had happened to him. 

_No!_ He chastised himself. What he had rought upon himself. Do be accurate!

But even as he shied away from remembering, the memories of last night flooded back inexorably nonetheless. He was not sure if it was a good sign that he couldn't picture the face of his attacker, as he could still hear his voice in his head and feel moist breath ghosting over his sweat-slick neck and back, making him shudder in revulsion.

Only when he heard his bedroom door open did he force himself to blink his surroundings into focus. As his vision adjusted, he glimpsed John leaning in the doorway. The sun shone bright through the thin curtains, mocking the two men with her promise of a fine fair day.

"Hi." John greeted casually but underneath his easy manner lurked a cold, dreadful fear, accompanied by forlorn tentativeness.

Sherlock did not reply, examining the ceiling instead, hoping John would just leave and let him succumb to his soreness and self-pity.

"You are awake. Good." John lingered, sounding utterly lost and helpless but trying desperately for cheerfulness.

Still, Sherlock did neither answer nor acknowledge his presence. His fingers started to pluck idly at his covers.

Eventually, John sighed, than seemed to man up, before crossing the threshold, stepping into Sherlock's room. He came over to the bed and only hesitated briefly before he lowered his body carefully onto the edge of the mattress.

He did not look at Sherlock when he asked: "What was this..." he gestured vaguely in Sherlock's general direction "... skirmish last night about?"

"Go away!" Sherlock groaned, twisting around and turning away from John to face the wall.

John did not move but fell silent for a long moment. When he started to speak again, he sounded exasperated: "Listen, Sherlock. Please, talk to me. We have to talk about what happened last night."

"Why?" Sherlock spat out, sounding bitter and cold.

"Because... _fuck, you utter twat!_ I might have shot the bastard."

Sherlock faced John abruptly. "You didn't?"

"I've killed for you before. Don't you think I wouldn't do it again."

"But...?"

"But this was different. He... Jesus... you allowed him to touch you..."

"What a lovely euphemism! You should honestly work on your bedside manner, Doctor Watson."

"You brought him here. You chatted him up. You propositioned yourself to him."

"So what? Are you insinuating that I wanted it? That I got what I deserved?"

“Apparently, we both know that you like it rough!”

"And?" Sherlock cocked his head slightly, glaring intently, his eyes a pale grey.

“That’s what I’m asking you!”

"Sorry?"

"Say it!"

"Say what?"

"For god's sake, Sherlock... just get it out!"

"What's the point? You think it might help, admitting it, bringing it out into the open? God, John, this level of homegrown kitchen sink psychoanalysis should be way beneath you!"

"He raped you?" John whispered, averting his eyes, staring down at the carpet, being obviously embarrassed for having to voice his concern as a question.

Sherlock huffed with only marginally supressed rage. "And I let him!" He yelled. "I didn't stop him. I didn't fight him." He turned back towards the wall. "Get out! Just leave me! I don't need neither your pity nor your stupid questions!"

Sherlock tensed as he suddenly felt John's hand on his shoulder.

"Please, do not talk like this. I know you feel like shit but..."

"Don't tell me it's not my fault, because it is!"

"Please, just stop it!" John sighed.

They both fell silent; there was nothing to say.

"What did you do to him?" Sherlock asked at last, his tone strained but inquisitive.

"I beat him up and threatened to cut his balls off. When he started to cry and pissed himself, I filmed him on my phone, then threw him out, keeping his trousers and wallet. His name's Garreth Woodley. Shall I pass his details on to Mycroft? I'm sure your brother can fiddle something with his credit cards or IP-address or what have you."

"Do as you please." Sherlock sounded aloof but John knew he wasn’t as opposed to the idea of his brother’s involvement as he tried to convey.

After another long silence John exhaled in frustration. "Why, Sherlock?"

"Why? Well, I'm not sure if Mycroft would be pleased to..."

John cut him off, bellowing in his best drill-sergeant’s voice: "Stop this farce. Talk to me!"

Sherlock fixed John with his cold, calculating gaze.

"Because I needed someone to casually fuck me and as you were not available and amendable, I had to look somewhere else." He delivered this line without hesitation, as if plainly stating the obvious.

"So you went to a club and got off with a random stranger? Are you really that daft? He could have killed you."

"Well, then I should feel lucky that he just violated my body, don't you think?"

"God, you are an obnoxious dickhead."

“I find your choice of words rather offensive and quite inappropriate, regarding the subject of our little chat.” Sherlock snapped in his best posh public school voice.

“What would have happened had I not come upon you and your… acquaintance?”

"Honestly, John, I'm not your damsel in distress. I'm perfectly capable to look after myself. Besides, worse things happen at sea." The sour smile that spread on Sherlock's face made John's stomach turn.

"You were completely off your face!” John said accusingly, confronting Sherlock with how ridiculous his statement sounded to him.

"Flunitrazepam."

"Sorry?"

"Rohypnol. Roofies. Date-rape drug."

"Ah. You sure?"

"Quite. Loss of self-control, hypotonia, amnesia... I'm fairly certain he put something in my water while we were snogging in the kitchen."

John was very quiet for a moment.

"So, will you continue picking up men to shag you?"

"Does it bother you?"

"You know it does. That's the point, isn't it?" John stated matter of factly. "You showing me what I'm missing, while at the same time distancing yourself, making it clear that _you_ don't need _me_. Keeping me close while pushing me away as far as you dare."

"I'd rather prefer we could stay on as friends with benefits..."

"We never were friends with benefits!" John protested.

"But we can't be a couple, either. You told me so yourself. Do keep up!" Sherlock sounded irritated and confused.

"That was a long time ago." John coughed, biding his time. Then he continued much softer. "Things have changed since. I nearly lost you. And I chose you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to fall silent. When he finally rolled over to speak to John, he felt raw and exposed: "This is way too dangerous. You were not sure you could handle it. I'm not sure I can handle it. What if we screw up?"

"Then we screw up. But at least we tried."

"That's utter crap!" Sherlock snorted disdainfully.

"Well, it's better than getting drugged and raped. Or finding your lover bent over your kitchen table, bleeding and sobbing, vomiting on the carpet."

"It doesn't always have to end this way."

"No, on a good evening, you probably just catch an STD or your conquest can't get it up or, worse of all, he turns out to be dull and boring, wanting to cuddle and watch a romantic comedy." John’s smile came across quite jolly as he outlined these prospects to the cringing man next to him, whose face contorted in disgust.

"You are an evil man, John Watson."

"Takes one to know one."

Sherlock couldn't stop the smile spreading onto his face, this time reaching his eyes. He sat up, drawing in his breath sharply but managed bravely to stifle a whine.

"I need a shower." He grumbled.

"Shall I have a look at you?" John asked, switching into doctor mode.

"I'd rather not." Sherlock sounded indignant and repelled, even blushing coyly.

"I won't mind."

"Piss off." Sherlock pushed past John, teasingly shoving him off his bed.

But - as John Watson was not as daft as his resident genius - he took this gesture exactly for what it was: an invitation, a declaration and the dearest compliment Sherlock Holmes was capable of.

“Wait, let me give you a hand!” He called, smirking, as he followed Sherlock into the bathroom.


	20. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raunchy shower sex. Need I say more?

_Darling, sweet lover, won't you help me to recover?_

Perhaps shower sex was not the most decent intention at the moment but John Watson wasn't a very decent man anyway. And the prospect of Sherlock Holmes on his knees, water dripping down his lean pale body while he sucked John's cock could even turn a very good man bad.

Sherlock was still wearing his clothes from last night - jeans and t-shirt, now rather sweaty and crumpled. He shed them without inhibition, almost incidental, only wincing a little as he bowed down to strip his pants off his sore arse. He didn't even bother to kick the garments toward the hamper in the corner because there would be no point in washing them; Sherlock would never wear them again. 

John briefly glanced down and saw the dried bloodstains that soiled Sherlock's underwear.

_Oh, this stupid, stupid nutter!_

Meanwhile, Sherlock turned the taps and waited for the water to warm up before climbing inside the tub. Hiis back was turned towards John, who quickly shed his jeans and sweater, stepping up behind Sherlock to carefully run both his hands down Sherlock's spine, brushing his thumbs over the protruding vertebrae, spanning his fingers tenderly over Sherlock's much too visible ribs.

Sherlock's breath caught and he stiffened recognisably, his hand freezing midair as he reached out toward the spray to test the temperature. John grabbed his narrow hips and let his hands wander over sharp hipbones while pressing open mouthed kisses to Sherlock's bony, surprisingly freckled shoulders.

"You all right?" John murmured

"Of course." John could tell that Sherlock tried very hard to sound indifferent.

His face twisted in pain as he climbed over the rim of their old-fashioned bathtub. John got in beside him, pulling the striped shower curtains shut, enclosing them in the wet, steamy space.

Sherlock turned around, now facing John but his eyes were closed against the water streaming over his brow. He leaned back, tilting his face upwards toward the spray and his dark curls got plastered against his head, slick and dripping, seeming longer now that they were straightened out, actually nearly tingling between his prominent shoulder blades. Sherlock shook his head slightly and rolled his shoulders as he started to relish the warmth that spread through his mistreated body, becoming visibly calm and placid, his mouth dropping open.

John watched enthralled, the display Sherlock was putting on resembling his most base pornographic fantasies of bathroom sex (almost always overrated) and when Sherlock opened his eyes - now only a light blue rim encircling dark blown pupils - and gazed down at him quite predatory, John couldn't resist the urge to grab Sherlock around his waist to pull him in for a fierce messy kiss.

Sherlock let him invade his mouth, lips and tongue pliant as John pushed in unwaveringly, moaning softly as John bit down hard on his lower lip, sucking on it before his wet tongue came back, sliding in and out of Sherlock's mouth. Only when Sherlock started kissing back enthusiastically did John grab his wet hair with his free hand, pulling him back and thus ending the passionate snogging, reminding a panting Sherlock raucously who was in charge here.

"Watch it." John growled in a deep guttural voice while slowly loosening his grip to Sherlock's hair, smoothing his hand down his neck and over his shoulder, his thumb stroking over Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock closed his eyes again and tried to even his breathing.

"You are filthy." John mumbled, his lips only inches away from Sherlock's. "Let's clean you up a bit first, shall we?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Say it. Look at me and say it!"

Unable to resist John's stern request, Sherlock opened his by now slightly unfocused eyes and, locking them on John's in an attempt to anchor himself, whispered in his deep baritone: "I am filthy. I think you have to clean me up, John. Please."

After being asked this polite, John resolutely grabbed the soap and gently started to scrub Sherlock's arms, chest and belly, lathering his limbs in richly fragrant foam. As his hand moved lower soap-slick fingers glided over Sherlock's hardening cock, pulling back the exquisitely sensitive skin before pushing between his thighs, brushing over his perineum behind his balls. Sherlock's knees buckled and he drew in a sharp breath.

Shower sex can be a rather slippery affair and, as John didn't fancy a trip to the hospital, having to explain dislodged kneecaps or broken wrists, he deftly spun Sherlock around, allowing him to brace himself with his forearms against the tilted bathroom wall.

"John, I'm not sure..." There was an edge of panic to Sherlock's voice as John manhandled him in this quite explicit and exposed position, his soapy fingers delving between Sherlock's buttocks.  
It took John a moment to catch the meaning behind Sherlock's words - to be honest, at this point he was so turned on that it felt as if all his blood was pooling in his groin, leaving just enough for his brain to carry out basic bodily functions, which delayed processing the nature of and reacting to Sherlock's concern for a few seconds.

But as Sherlock's protest sank in, it brought John's administrations to an abrupt halt. He stilled, pressed his forehead between Sherlock's wet shoulder blades and concentrated on his breathing to calm himself down, forcing the nauseous feeling in his gut to subside.

He was aware of Sherlock trembling, his muscles tense with the effort to keep his body in check, to ignore the fight or flight reflex his alarmed brain was urging him to adopt. The sight twisted something deep inside John’s stomach.

"Shh, love." John removed his hands from Sherlock's body, giving him time to compose himself. After a few moments he whispered next to Sherlock's ear, to make sure he could be heard over the gush of running water: "I will never deliberately hurt you, Sherlock. This is just a game we play, because we both like it." A warm smile crept into his voice. "Ok, maybe it's a bit more than just a game but it is as far removed from what that son of a bitch did to you last night as ..." He suddenly felt at a loss for an apt analogy. 

"As methylenedioxyphenethylamine is from tetrahydrocannabinol?"

"Hey, welcome back!" John chuckled with relieve. "But we should definitely do something about you being still capable of uttering those terms. What _are_ you talking about, by the way?"

"Mandy. Pot." John could literally hear Sherlock roll his eyes in exasperation.

"Wait, why are you thinking about narcotics while I do my best to seduce you in the shower?" But as he felt Sherlock getting ready to unravel his train of thoughts in this particular direction, John hastened to cut him short. "No! Stop it! I'm sure I really don't want to know." He could positively sense Sherlock pouting, even without being able to see his face, as his surely brilliant retort was so briskly dismissed. To make up for it, John sucked and licked warm water from Sherlock's back until he started squirming, then continued to massage soap in Sherlock's hard muscled back. 

When the shower spray had rinsed Sherlock's body, John stepped closer and ran his hands up Sherlock's folded arms and biceps, all the way to his shoulders, holding onto him while bringing his mouth to Sherlock's long, pale neck, just barely ghosting his lips down from his hairline, lingering over the pulse point, sensing the erratic beat.

"Turn around. I think you're ready now."

Sherlock had relaxed visibly, his lips parted in astonished delight, as if taken by surprise at savouring John touching him. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, now rosy from the heat, water spilling down his face like tears and John was suddenly struck by the frail unearthly beauty of this impossible man.

"On your knees." He murmured softly in Sherlock's ear, his lips caressing the tender shell and, as if on cue, Sherlock sank down in one fluid motion.

John stroked dark hair back and steadied himself, gripping Sherlock's shoulder tightly with his other hand,as Sherlock pressed his cheek against John's hard cock, lingering like this for a moment before opening his eyes, looking up at John as if waiting for a sign to proceed. He seemed to get an answer to hi sunspoken question as he met John’s heated gaze, because without warning Sherlock suddenly swallowed John’s cock up to the hilt, sucking eagerly.

Now it paid off handsomely that John had trained him to suppress his gag reflex.

Sherlock's hands grasped either side of the tub as he took John's cock in as far as he could, his lips stretching obscenely around the girth. He felt the head of John's cock bump against the back of his throat and slowly released him, brushing his flat tongue firmly over the underside of John's shaft, only stopping as the glans threatened to slip from his mouth, licking around the rim with just the tip of his tongue before attentively pushing it to the slit, tightening his lips, sucking hard again.

John moaned and his legs nearly gave way as Sherlock scraped his teeth carefully over his frenulum, massaging the sting with his flat tongue afterwards before going down on him again.

As John expressed filthy encouragement - _"Sweet Jesus, you are such a greedy cockslut." - "God, just look at you, you really gag for it, don't you?" - "Fuck, your mouth was made for sucking cock." - "Come on, you can take it deeper." - "That's a good boy."_ \- Sherlock set a steady rhythm, bobbing his head up and down on John's cock until his nose bumped repeatedly against John's belly. 

When John got close, he stilled Sherlock's enthusiastic administrations by grabbing the back of his head and pressing him close until Sherlock choked in a desperate attempt to breath. John held him tight for just a moment longer; just as Sherlcok thought he couldn't take it any longer John eased his grip, beckoning Sherlock to continue. He watched all the while, sometimes brushing Sherlock's hair back when wet curls threatened to block his view of Sherlock's swollen lips around his cock and his hollowed cheeks.

Eventually, Sherlock made a keening sound low in his throat, reminding John that the man on his knees in front of him also had needs that required attention.

"Touch yourself." John groaned and Sherlock's right hand flew to his own very hard but rather neglected cock, fisting himself desperate and fast. He lost his flow, his movements becoming erratic, until John withdrew from his mouth, tugging hard on Sherlock' hair to force him to concentrate on his task ahead.

Sherlock whimpered, trying to suck John back into his mouth, his head scooting forward, bruised lips parted. John shivered at the sight and had to pull Sherlock back with all his strength, just barely able to hiss between gritted teeth: "Beg me for it."

"Please, John, let me suck your cock." Sherlock looked up at John almost deprived, his eyes dark, water running over his sharp features. "I need it so badly, please, John."

John was done. He pushed into the hot wet heat that was Sherlock's mouth without any restrained and simply fucked that face without mercy until he felt his balls tighten, shouting obsceneties as he came down Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock swallowed John's release eagerly, sucking until he felt the cock in his mouth go limp; only then did he let John slip out.

"Please, John, let me come." Sherlock pleaded, his voice hoarse from his previous occupation.

John felt hot and dizzy, his vision blurred by tiny drops of water, the gushing of the shower drowning out everything else apart from his blood pounding loudly in his ears.

"Well, come on then, gorgeous." He was barely able to form words.

But Sherlock did not need more encouragement. After a few forceful pulls, he came hard, bucking his hips, grunting as he spurted his come down into the tub. He stayed on his knees for a few more minutes, panting, resting his forehead against John's thigh to steady himself and not to topple over, only rising after John turned off the taps.

John helped him out of the tub and had him wrapped in a fluffy towel immediately. Sherlock leaned in close, seeking John's mouth to just kiss him until he had collected himself enough to look John straight in the eye.

John was struck by the force of the possessiveness he felt as Sherlock all but cuddled into his body, gazing at him with such openly displayed trust and satisfaction that John's breath hitched while he almost unconsciously pulled Sherlock tight, tenderly stroking his thumb over a sharp cheekbone.

"Come on, get dressed. I'll get us some dinner. And you will eat."

"Will you make me?"

_"Oh.My.God."_ John kissed Sherlock passionately again before shoving him playfully away. "Sod of to your room, you posh prat, and at least wrap this tantalising transport of yours in something halfway decent."

"As you wish, John." That said, Sherlock turned around, languishingly dropping his towel as he strode elegantly off to his bedroom, leaving the door open for John to get a god full view of all his naked glory.

John definitely enjoyed the show but eventually turned and headed for the kitchen, a towel wrapped firmly around his waist. He first called their favourite take away, ordering Thai food to be delivered. After glancing back to Sherlock's bedroom, he pressed speed dail while wandering off into the living room.

"Good evening, Mycroft... Yes, my pleasure... Sorry, do you have a moment, I'd like to talk to you about someone ... No, he's fine, but there's a fella called Woodley..."


	21. Wonderful distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to distract Sherlock from witnessing the results of himself fraternising with Mycroft. Pure smut ensues.

_"Act well your part, there all the honour lies."_ Alexander Pope

Sherlock has been kneeling on his bedroom floor for what feels like hours. Under different circumstances he would by know be bored stiff but John is so very clever at distracting him, diverting his ever restless mind and that's why his current tense state - no pun intended - is as far removed from apathy as possible.

His head is bowed, eyes cast down. Despite his aversion to restrains, Sherlock doesn't mind his present position: his arms are raised above his head and bent at the elbows, his hands dangling between his shoulder blades. There are ropes wound around both elbows and his wrists are tied together behind his head, encircled with several layers of black hemp. The two bonds are connected by a middle cord, thus fixing both arms firmly, making it impossible for Sherlock to move them.

He has to hold his upper body very straight and still to avoid toppling over. The muscles in his back and abdomen twitch with the effort, making his skin slick with sweat. He is sitting on his heels, legs pressed together tightly and the strain is nearly too much. His hands have started to feel numb.

With every shudder of his quivering body he can feel the plug in his arse shift slightly. It's big and took a while putting it in place. It's made of glass and the cool, smooth toy had to be worked in slowly to avoid injuries. As the widest part had breached him, Sherlock had been sobbing, begging John to stop. But John had not relented. Instead he had simply petted Sherlock's hair to shush him, telling him that he better learn to like it.

When the plug sat firmly in place at last, John had gripped Sherlock's hair on top of his head, jerking him up, so that he could face his lover. Sherlock's eyes had widened when he saw the other surprise John had in stock for him. It took him only a moment to identify the object and deduce its purpose: a spider-gag.  
"Open your mouth." John had commanded, before deftly administering the silver shackle into Sherlock's mouth, fastening the black leather straps at the back of his neck. Sherlock had watched John during this procedure, not sure if he was fully content with what was happening to him.

.................................................

Sherlock has no idea how long ago John left the room, ordering him to stay exactly like this until his return. The metal braces of the gag prevent him from closing his mouth and he's drooling uninhibitedly, saliva running over his chin, drops splashing down on his protruding cock which stands out achingly hard, the head glistening with precome.

Sherlock is very sure that he is not allowed to come. Nevertheless, after a while he's started rocking cautiously back and forth, experimenting with the angle of the large toy up his arse, unable to resist his need to experience the almost painful penetration. Every now and then, he gets it just perfectly right and the plug presses against his prostate, making his cock twitch. He desperately wants friction but is denied this pleasure and the ambiguity of final release just arouses him more.

Finally, he can hear the door opening but knows better than to raise his head and look up. He merely senses John walking in and around him full circle.

"God, look at you." John's voice is mocking Sherlock's obvious arousal and his futile attempts to come to terms with it. "You are desperate to be fucked, aren't you?"

Sherlock nods eagerly, spit dripping freely, cock jerking. He is so ashamed of his depraved state but totally incapable to deny John's assumption, hoping for deliverance, willing to accept anything that John might do to him if he will just be allowed to get off.

"Look at me." John demands and Sherlock lifts his head, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, his curls plastered to his forehead. His mouth hurts, for his lips are forced apart ruthlessly and he can see his undignified need reflected in John's disdainful scorn.

"You ganting slut." John steps behind him but Sherlock does not dare to turn his head.

John tests Sherlock's constrains, yanking at his arms, eliciting an exhausted moan from the worn out man in front of him.

"Oh, a bit uncomfortable, are we?" John pulls harder and Sherlock feels tears well up into his eyes but forces himself to stifle the whine rising in his throat. "Do you honestly think you are in a position to complain?" The voice hissing in Sherlock's ear is cold and mean.

Sherlock feels goosebumps spreading across his rigid back and shakes his head emphatically, sending sweat and saliva flying.

He is aware of John kneeling behind him, his hand brushing down Sherlock's cramped muscles until they reach his lower back, resting there for a moment before delving into the cleft of his arse. John strokes over the glossy base of the plug, twisting it a bit, then pushing slightly against it.

Sherlock shakes and stirs, unable to hold back the utterly undignified noises that escape his tortured mouth. The drool intensifies and he lowers his head in embarrassment, thoroughly humiliated by his raving desire to be touched just there.

"You need me to fuck you." John croons and it's not a question. "And I'll give you exactly what you need." With that, John grips the base firmly and Sherlock freezes, fearing the burning pain he knows is coming. John doesn't go slow, just pulls the toy out in one swift move and Sherlock cries out in despair, a strained howl despite the gag and the punishment he's sure to expect, throwing his head back against his shackled arms. 

But instead of hurting him more with stern discipline, John strokes his tender sides until his breathing has calmed and the sobs die down.

"Just relax." John eases him. "I'll put it back in later, after we've finished." Sherlock wants to protest but feels too weak and vulnerable to muster the strength to do so. He leans into John's touches instead, indulging in the caresses as hands come round, stroking his chest, pinching his peaked nipples, then moving further south, brushing over his lower belly but stopping short before making direct contact with Sherlock's very much neglected prick.

"I'm going to untie you now." John murmurs and he takes his time with it, unwinding the rope lazily, licking the marks the bounds have left on Sherlock's delicate skin. It hurts as the blood starts to flow unrestricted again through his long extremities, shooting hot back into his torpid hands and fingers. Sherlock has to flex them a few times and his biceps nearly cramp as he stretches his arms before lowering them warily.

But if he was hoping for an end to his torment, he is proven wrong. 

John gently but insistently pushes his body down with one hand between his shoulder blades, nudging his thighs apart with his knee. Sherlock ends up with his face turned sideways on the floor, his arse up in the air, folded thighs spread, exposing him obscenely. Then John pulls back his still weak arms, and ties each wrist tightly against the corresponding ankle, leaving Sherlock lying on his shins, supporting his body onto his shoulders.

Sherlock is helpless and exposed, just the way John wants him to be. He lets his hand wander idly up and down Sherlock's pale back that's stretched out in front of him, the vertebrae protruding prominently.

"I'm going to fuck you now." John announces but Sherlock is confused, because he does not hear the anticipated ruffling of John discarding at least some clothing. Then he is even more confused as he feels a firm push at his entrance. He experiences being entered but has no idea what is penetrating him. It is not just a finger and its not John's cock either but something resembling it, only slightly bigger and firmer.

"I can positively hear you marvelling." John chuckles, pressing whatever it is in deeper, stretching Sherlock's sphincter even more but it is not unpleasant, no, not at all. On the contrary, it starts to feel incredible and Sherlock begins to rock back against the sensation until he's fucking himself with abandon, elevated by being doubtlessly allowed to seek some satisfaction at last. His current position has his cock rubbing between his stomach and thighs and it's just glorious; he's finally, finally able to achieve the much needed friction he's longed for. He moans contently as his movements have him on the edge in an embarrassingly short time but then he falters, not sure if that's what John wants from him. He's barely able to control his vigorously twitching hips and the effort of not coming has him seeing stars at the back of his firmly closed eyes. He huffs, sputtering, but John seems to grasp his unspoken query as he changes the angle slightly, hitting Sherlock's prostate full force and that's when he's done. 

"Come on, fuck yourself on this big fat cock." John hisses and Sherlock embraces this encouragement wholeheartedly, coming so hard he's sure he'll black out, come shooting from his cock, pooling on his legs, even hitting his chin, a sticky mess added to all the other fluids Sherlock's body is currently covered in.

John has fucked Sherlock unrelentingly during his orgasm but now he pulls out whatever it was that he put up Sherlock's hole, ordering the spent man on the floor to open his eyes.

"Look what you can handle." John whispers, and there is awe in his tone as he presents Sherlock with a heavily veined black ten inch dildo, at least four inches in girth (it's telling that Sherlock is in no state to access its proportions accurately). Sherlock just blinks at it, too dazed to process that he just had this massive cock stuffed up his anus and fucked himself on it into oblivion.

John tenderly brushes Sherlock's hair back, then moves his hand down to his chin, smearing saliva and come, playing with the slightly gluey mass, coating his fingers with it.

"You are amazing." He soothes, while pushing two fingers into Sherlock's obediently opened wet mouth. John uses his other hand to unzip fast and his large cock springs free, hard, flushed nearly purple. He takes his lubricated fingers to stroke it in front of Sherlock's face a few times, before he brutally grabs his hair, pulling Sherlock's head up just enough so he can easily enter that stretched hot mouth, pushing in until he feels his glans hit the back of Sherlock's throat, who is too far gone to even retch. He just let's John use his mouth as he surrenders completely, no strength left to resist, broken, shattered, his mind blank. This is the state of transcendence he so desperately seeks and which only John is capable to provide.

After a few minutes, John let go of Sherlock's head. It slumps back onto the floor but Sherlock is too frail to care. John shuffles behind him and finally pushes in, not stopping before embedded balls deep into Sherlock's arse. He starts pounding immediately, not bothering with going gentle or slow, clearly only after his own gratification. Sherlock is slick and open from the previous administrations, too spent to put up any sort of resistance and so John just takes what he needs, fucking Sherlock hard and deep, shoving him across his bedroom floor. His knees will bear witness to this treatment, but that won't be Sherlock's only reminder of their prolonged session. John knows he can take this and more, that Sherlock will wear the resulting marks with a kind of rather endearing pride.

John grips Sherlock's hip resolutely as he feels his climax approaching, stilling, before he can feel himself starting to pulse, spilling what feels like an enormous load into Sherlock's compliant body. He stays there just for a few moments longer, shivering, savouring the sight before him. But eventually he has to drag his eyes forcibly away from Sherlock's spread out body, because he can feel his come dribble out of Sherlock's hole, past his softening cock. So he pulls out and promptly replaces his prick with the big glass plug he had deposited nearby earlier. It slides in surprisingly easy and Sherlock only weakly whimpers when stretched once more nearly beyond endurance.

John presses a kiss to the small of Sherlock's back before untying him, carefully massaging his arms to start circulation again. Then he gently pulls him up to a kneeling position, unfastening the gag and removing the braces that have started to cut into the corners of Sherlock's swollen mouth. 

They gaze at each other for a moment before John pulls Sherlock into a tender embrace, resting his head against his still clad shoulder. As Sherlock starts to wipe his wet face against the fabric of John's shirt, John realises that some form of personal hygiene is imminent. He helps Sherlock to his feet, leading him to the bathroom.

Sherlock is barely able to walk, as his legs are still wobbly. The glass plug up his arse feels like splitting his abused body into half, burning inside his sore hole, brushing over his sensitive prostate with every step. Despite his exhaustion he can feel his cock answering to the stimulus and as he catches John's knowing smirk it's made quite clear to him that they are not the least bid done for tonight.

"You need a hot bath, love, and then some food. No, this is not negotiable." He adds as Sherlock is on the brink of a slightly unconvincing protest. "I'll get you some tea while you soak."

...................................................................

With Sherlock settled in the tub, John goes to the kitchen to prepare the promised beverage. He picks up his phone as it chimes with an incoming text, smiling to himself as he browses through today's messages:

_"It's done. Keep him away from news and TV for today, footage could prove upsetting."_ MH

_"Understood. Will manage."_ JW

_"Never doubted your ability to do so."_ MH

" _Ta. I owe you."_ JW

_"Yes, you certainly do."_ MH

But the text that's just arrived is from Lestrade.

_"Nasty business, that one. His nibs interested looking into it? Might go a long way. Where there's smoke..."_ GL

_"Doubt that. Not really his area."_ JW

_"He busy?"_ GL

_"Bit preoccupied at the moment."_ JW

_"Never mind. At least there's comfort in knowing that these creeps will suffer more from considered fellow inmates than unto the law."_ GL

_"That's the spirit."_ JW

John's smile broadens as he puts his phone down, looking forward to mollify Sherlock with tea and Thai food, lulling him into an early night. He is very sure that he will keep his new favourite toy in place until tomorrow and his mind develops some rather delicious plans as how to proceed then. John is absolutely and totally willing to go to any length to avoid Sherlock accidentally stumbling over the disturbing results of his lover conspiring with his - at least superficially - detested elder sibling. No honour lying there.


	22. Between the wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is collecting his dept and John is left with no choice but to oblige, which makes Sherlock rather furious.

John had kept Sherlock plugged for the next 24 hours. After feeding him his favourite Thai (tom kha gai), John had felt obliged to shag Sherlock thoroughly again, making sure the detective's mind was completely blank and absolutely not inclined to following the latest news and discovering his brothers’ meddling with certain incidents regarding a rather unpleasant acquaintance.

Sherlock had been so slick from their previous fucking that they hadn't even needed lube. John, coming from a rather mediocre lower middle class background and therefore prone to parsimony (not to mention his past experiences in the army, where he had learned the hard way that saving supplies for rainy days could be literally vital), was always one for economising, so he had taken to this form of intercourse initially, requiring Sherlock to keep wearing their new toy for the time being (or as long as John - acting the responsible adult in their relationship - could account for its administration regarding health and safety).  
Eventually Sherlock had responded to this idea enthusiastically - at least after overcoming his original animosity toward the device, encouraged by John's firm insistence and rather canny persuasion. This led to Sherlock being bend over almost every horizontal surface in 221b to get thoroughly fucked without tediously wasting time on foreplay - which corresponded well with Sherlock's notoriously impatient temper. John could just push into Sherlock's open and wet hole any time he liked and he evidently liked it a lot!

But there's only so often two men nearing forty can go and as one should always leave off with an appetite, they finally faltered, giving in to bone deep exhaustion, sleeping for nearly 12 hours straight (well, obviously not). 

The next day had brought a new case: locked room mystery, middle aged Russian oligarch shot in the head with no apparent weapon to be found, very young and artificially busty third wife, bunch of sulking, spoilt children all living off _papockas_ money. Sherlock had positively gloated over it, as much revelling in showing off his language skills at a party at the Belarus embassy as in the ultimate chase after the suspect in the vast grounds of said embassy, finally capturing the perpetrator - the oligarch's PA, infuriatingly in love with the lush and luscious widow - pinning him dramatically to a tree with a bronze ceremonial sabre.

The resulting diplomatic befuddlements required Sherlock giving evidence not only at the yard but also to some very illustrious and rather mysterious Russian and Belarus dignitaries. As they took him to a splendid dinner, serving champagne, caviare and shot after shot of excellent vodka, Sherlock didn't mind as much as usual and even abstained from complaining when handed over the incriminated dagger as some kind of macabre souvenir.

Mycroft being Mycroft, the elder Holmes was fully aware of his brother’s transgression into his very own field of shadowy diplomacy and hush-hush politics. And when, suddenly, a situation arose in which the British government needed the expertise of a certain army doctor, Mycroft found himself lucky that his brother was not in attendance as he came by to call in a favour from his sibling's highly treasured flatmate.

"Please, nothing remotely Russian, not after this last case, anyway. Hospitality is a fine trait, as is gratitude but do you have any idea what three bottles of Armenian cognac can do to a man? I was singing The International, for god's sake!"

_"Mezhdunarodnyy slyshit signaly."_ Mycroft hummed, absent-mindedly picking microscopic lint from his lapel. His eyes roamed the crammed living room of his brother's dwelling, taking in the accumulated clutter - comprising various obscure science magazines, an antique wooden coffee grinder and, for the love of god, a box containing sepia coloured photographs which might actually show decomposing bodies spilling from opened marble coffins in some kind of crypt. Shuddering at what might be hidden beneath the yellowing papers strewn all over the place, Mycroft refrained from sitting down in the offered armchair and remained standing while he contemplated the best way to remind John that he owed him and that he wasn’t used to being denied his well-deserved rebate.

These thoughts brought Mycroft back to the task at hand: "And besides, it's not Russia, it's actually East Ukraine." He clarified.

"Oh, the last I heard, that was disputable." John retorted.

"Well, your effort might result in settling this matter once and for all." Mycroft replied smoothly.

"Don't you have experts for this sort of thing? Diplomats, spies, SAS?"

"Of course, we have. But if you think I trust those people, you really are the imbecile my brother so frequently calls you."

John, who knew what it meant when a Holmes went from flattery to slander, manned up for another round of eloquent bickering and was taken by surprise at Mycroft's suddenly tired voice and pressing manner.

"John, this is a rather delicate matter. I would very much appreciate you considering this highly important task. I desperately need someone not only equipped with sufficient medical knowledge but also with profound experience in combat. Your commitment can be vital to British interests in the whole region. Oh, and it will be dangerous."

"Living with your brother fully satisfies my requirements regarding hazardous ventures."

Mycroft went from gazing around the room to meticulously inspecting the floor. His voice was soft and quiet as he spoke next but John did neither miss the steely subtext nor the blatant threat: "Surly I don't have to remind you of your... _dealings_... with my brother at The Landmark?"

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but if I'm not mistaken, we've had this conversation and you assured me that our... _proceedings_

"Well, I'm not talking about your mundane carnal performance, Doctor Watson. I am referring to you in your capacity as a medical professional, administering a class A drug to my little brother, whom I had to get painstakingly off the sauce more than once, unless I wanted to witness him pegging out on some grimy public lavatory." Mycroft still sounded conversationally but he was looking John straight in the eye for the first time since his arrival, his unfaltering gaze hard and unforgiving.

John paled. "You know about that…?" was all he could muster as an answer.

"Yes." How one word could imply so much vicious determination as well as the prospect of future inconveniences far beyond John's worst imaginations!

John, who also knew when he was beaten, finally surrendered. Mycroft's smile came across icy.

After that, all could have been considerably well, had Sherlock not decided that this was precisely the ideal time to return to his lodgings, still agitated and a fair bit inebriated by the opulent lunch he had been treated to by an opaque but otherwise immensely generous entourage of eastern European diplomats.

Finding his much abhorred elder brother deep in conversation with his preferred companion would have set Sherlock off on a raging fit even if he had not consumed a bottle of Crimean champagne with his dessert alone but fuelled by liquid courage, he came down at the scene like some kind of raving nemesis.

"Mycroft, what the fuck...!" He bellowed on encountering his pristine sibling in his sitting room.

"Brother dear, is reverting to profanity your way of complimenting me out of your..." Mycroft hesitated "...home," he continued vaguely, "or are you inviting me in?" Mycroft's voice wavered politely.

"Just piss off, will you!" Was the answer he got.

"Oh dear, you should know by now how drink affects you. With all the rehab I've been paying for," here he glanced poignantly at John, "I’d thought you might have at least got a grip on your liquor intake."

"May I remind you that it was not the socially excepted alcohol that got me into the hideous treadmill you so very euphemistically call rehab but something much more inappropriate, at least to fucking menacing hypocrites like you." Sherlock hissed. His voice had risen at the end of the sentence while he advanced toward his brother, until his spitefully contorted face was but inches away from Mycroft’s, who did not so much as flinch when he spoke to John while fixing his flustered sibling with a rather pitying stare: 

"I assume we have reached an understanding on certain points, now, John? Very well, then I have to excuse myself. As much as I would like to stay and point out to you, beloved brother, how my so ungratefully misjudged intervention led to you being able to enjoy all the benefits of obviously fulfilling camaraderie with your… flat mate, I have to take my leave, for there are urgent matters, out there, in the real world, that require the attention of fucking menacing hypocrites like me, so that immature fledglings with an infantile propensity toward ridiculous excitement can act on their selfish and irresponsible impulses. Present company excepted, of course. Good day."

And with that, the British government made its exit from the arguably dingy rooms in Marylebone.

"And be gone for good!" Sherlock shouted as he banged the door shut, spinning round and starring angrily at John. "What was this about, anyway?" He inquired.

"Well..." John began, then trailed of as he thought about how to tell Sherlock that he had conspired with his much hated brother, envisaging the resulting consequences.

"Well...?" Sherlock repeated sardonically, coming over to John, a malicious smile on his face.

"Mycroft... kind of... _offered_... me a job?" It sounded more like a question, as if John was asking for Sherlock's approval.

"A job? What kind of job could he possibly offer you? Oh, wait, something eastern European? Something dangerous? Christ, John, are you really that naive?"

John knew perfectly well when the only option left was brutal honesty. "I owe him, Sherlock." But he sure as hell wouldn't tell the whole truth. "He knows about the drugs."

Sherlock did him the honour of blushing a little at this revelation. "Does he?" He started to pace up and down their living room, blinking nervously, his greatcoat swirling quite dramatically. "And you are still alive and well? Then it must be one hell of a job. Or, maybe, a suicide mission?"

"I really appreciate your positive attitude."

Sherlock spun around, putting John's worst fears into words: "If my brother knows you supplied me with hard drugs, he would not hesitate to kill you. Get you killed, I mean. He won't get his own hands dirty. Or at least profoundly ruin you. So, offering you a job is somehow… _kind_ … of him. I wonder why he’s resorting to altruism?"

_'Because I handed that sick fellow who raped you over to him.'_ John thought but did not dare to voice his insight. Mycroft might be the coldest bastard in the whole UK but if he cared passionately about one - or any - person, at all, it was his little brother. He would go to any length to protect him and, if it was too late for that, he would certainly feel obliged to revenge him.

"He regarded me especially suited for an exceptionally difficult task." John retorted rather primly.

"And I thought he has a navy at his command..." Sherlock wondered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

John squared his shoulders and just glanced back at him.

"Apparently, that's not what's required under these specific circumstances." He sounded tartly even to his own ears.

"Evidently." Sherlock huffed.

They looked at each other, stalemate, the tension in the room nearly reaching boiling point. 

Suddenly, Sherlock launched himself onto John, pinning him against the wall with his hands clawing at John’s shoulders. They stood close enough for their noses nearly touching and Sherlock bared his teeth in an almost cruel fashion as he spat his question into John's face: “What have you done?”

John didn’t put up any resistance, which seemed to shock Sherlock more than John starting to fight him off would have done. John refusing to answer him set off all his alarm bells, fuelling utterly fatal forebodings.

“God, John, what did you get yourself into?” Sherlock gradually sounded seriously concerned at the lack of John's protest. He stepped back eventually, frowning, shaking his head in bewilderment, mumbling incomprehensibly to himself.

“Sherlock, just… let it go, will you?” John tried desperately to calm his lover down.

His plea was met with more mumbling and frowning, as Sherlock started to pace again.

“Sherlock, please...” John groaned exasperated. “Could you stop that. It's a bit scary.”

“You think I'm scary?” Sherlock finally stopped his frantic strop and turned to John, worry on his face and genuine fear in his eyes. “I strongly advise you to reconsider, for you might actually have done a deal with the devil.”

“I have to rely on your expertise there.” John deadpanned.

“Yes, you very well may. And remember, the last time someone ended up dead.”

They both fell silent again until John, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze, went over to the window, staring out without really seeing anything, too disturbed to concentrate on the mundane movements on the pavement below. He sensed Sherlock stepping up behind him, lingering.

The silence stretched. John was at a total loss of words, overwhelmed by Sherlock's painfully open, rather vicious concern. He had not expected this reaction. In fact, he had anticipated some venomous shouting, followed by a major sulk, which would have had to be gloriously overcome by endeavouring some ruthless sexual practices in their bedroom later at night.

John sighed. Sherlock carefully put his arms around him, nuzzling in his neck.

“Don't go.” He murmured.

“I have to.”

“Why?” Sherlock's unusually soft voice was barely audible.  
“I... just have to. Leave it be.”

“So my brother can actually force you?”

“As you said, I sold myself over to the devil.” John managed a crooked smile.

“But why?” Sherlock nearly whined.

Slowly, John turned around in Sherlock's arms, tilting his head to look the taller man right in the face.

“What do you think, mh? Apparently, you are supposed to be the genius in this …”

“Flat?” Sherlock interrupted.

“...Relationship?” John finished.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“You owe Mycroft? But what could my utterly excruciating brother possibly have done for you?”

“He did me a favour.”

“Regarding...?”

“I'd rather not talk about it.” And with that, he shut Sherlock up quite efficiently by snogging him deep and properly.

They ended up making out on their sofa, resembling overly anxious teenagers in their eager fumblings, trying to reach as much heated skin as possible while not letting go of one another even for the short time it took to disrobe. Their clothes ended up in a crumpled pile on the living room floor but they couldn't have cared less, because Sherlock was panting, looking up at John through his long lashes with hazy eyes, the colour high in his cheeks, sweat lingering on his upper lip and John traced it with his tongue, then licked it, before pushing deep into Sherlock's mouth, and was rewarded with a lascivious moan.

They touched, stroked and kissed, sighing, whispering filthy things against each other's skin, confessing dark desires, abandoning all thoughts of tomorrow or possible suicide missions - or anything, in fact, that went on outside their dim and slightly drab flat – relishing how their bodies responded to one another, savouring the pure pleasure of the moment, overwhelmed by the sight of the other coming undone, loosing control while thrusting with abandon against each other. Sherlock came first, huffing against John's sweat-slick shoulder, biting down hard to quieten the keening noises escaping him. John followed right behind, the sharp pain shooting through his body tripping him over the edge. He pulled at Sherlock's curls – hard – yanking his head back, kissing his lover brutally, tasting his own blood on Sherlock's lips.

“Coming full circle, what'd you reckon?” John asked as he was able to speak again.

“Don't even think you have stopped me from finding out what went on between you and Mycroft.” Sherlock growled.

But at the moment, his voice lacked real determination. Resting his head against John's chest, he gave in to his drowsiness as they lay entangled on their couch, until the chill made their sweaty naked bodies shiver, forcing them to retire early into bed.


	23. This night has opened my eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves London - and Sherlock - as comissioned by Mycroft, paying him back. While Sherlock sulks, John gets acquainted with the local customs and traditions. Heed the tags - this gets rather unpleasant.

The Mariupol Grand Hotel at Korolenka Pereulok had sounded way more formidable than it looked, John concluded, now that he was able to inspect it for himself. The deep red tapestry had faded to a blotchy pink and was peeling off the walls behind strategically placed flower stands, stuffed with dusty artificial petals. Then there was the smell, as if something had died behind the boards, slowly rotting.

The air was humid and too warm, so nothing could dry properly, filling John’s nostrils with a mildewy scent as he rolled around under his sheets in a squeaky antique double bed, unable to sleep, kept awake by the distant sounds of detonations.

The front was not far away, some bombs had even exploded in the city itself and left the streets scattered with glass and bricks, the asphalt disrupted by open cracks reminding him of scars on a body. The palm trees that lined the promenade – it was a sea side town, after all – still stood tall but some leaves had been scorched during the fighting.

John had seen all the detritus of a war torn city when he had been taken by his driver to his present residence. It had triggered memories of his time in Afghanistan. .ow, in the middle of the night, unable to rest, some of the ghosts that haunted him from his army days had gathered in the periphery of his vision, lurking in the shadows of his darkened hotel suite. The interiors' washed out splendour fitted perfectly with John’s distant reminiscences of loss and pain and misery, feelings he was expected to have conquered or at least compartmentalised years ago.

John felt on the brink of one of his now gladly more and more infrequent PTSD attacks. Finally accepting that sleep wouldn’t wrap him in its cosy arms this night, he left the bed and stepped out onto the balcony to get some air. It felt a lot better to be outside in the still warm darkness and as a light breeze whiffed from the sea it was the closest John felt to somewhat not totally pissed off in nearly 36 hours.

The journey had been hazardous, flying from London to Berlin to Kiev, then by Range Rover via Kharkiv and Donetsk – a plane would have been too dangerous, as both pro-russian rebels and Ukrainian military were prone to shoot it down. The streets had become deserted with every mile further east they had driven, while the check-points had increased, the temper of the men lingering around the turnpikes and improvised barriers deteriorating rapidly as they got nearer to the war zone.

So, when John had reached his hotel, he had been knackered, just longing for a hot shower and a cold beer. It turned out to be available only vice versa and the blond maid who had brought his drink up had only been a fraction less grumpy than the soldiers he had encountered on his way.

Jesus, how he missed London!

Fuck you, Mycroft Holmes, and all your mustering regarding secret missions and God, Queen and Country!

He very profoundly felt the distinct desire to hear Sherlock's voice, to talk to him and tell him about the things he had seen, sharing his impressions and listen to his lovers' clever and likely inept comments. But the berk had clearly been sulking all day, so there really was no point in making a call only to be ignored, ridiculed or insulted – or probably all of it.

And as his thoughts drifted back to his departure, he wasn't sure if it was at the moment all that bad to be this far away from the world's only consulting detective.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

John had postponed telling Sherlock about his assignment until the last possible moment. Only the evening before his flight had been scheduled had he finally pulled himself together and confronted Sherlock with the news that he would be leaving for the Ukraine the next morning.

If John had expected an epic sulk, he got deeply disappointed. But Sherlock made up for that by throwing a tantrum that was exceptional even by his standards. Furniture and crockery suffered alike from his mercurial temper. When Mrs. Hudson had dared to peek into their rooms to cautiously inquire what was going on, she barely escaped a small display case with spiked beetles ricocheted in her general direction (John was just glad Sherlock didn't throw his jack knife, pinning down some unopened letters next to the poor insects on the mantleshelf), which made her retreat back unto the stairs, shrieking that the caused damage would be put on their rent. The deceased creepy crawlers had shattered to the floor amid sharp slivers of glass and splintered wood, adding some protein to the mounting chaos.

"Sherlock, for god's sake...!" John had tried to allay the raging man's anger but to no avail.

"Who does this obese fucktard think he is?" Sherlock had yelled, accentuating his words by smashing a container full of pencils against the wall, sending them flying in all directions. “That fucking arsehole cunt!” John wasn’t sure if this was directed at him or Mycroft.

"Sherlock, we've already been over this. I can't refuse him. He..."

But Sherlock hadn't been listening. Instead, he had been shouting obscenities of quite a sundry variety to describe the manifold ills he wished upon his brother for luring his lover away to a “godforsaken shithole” somewhere in eastern Europe, all the while attacking their household appliances with kicks and punches.

Only when he had driven his fist into the big mirror on the wall above their fireplace did John feel obliged to intervene. He had grabbed Sherlock's bloody hand and squeezed hard. The pain had finally brought Sherlock around and he had gazed at John, wide eyed and shocked.

"Please, don't go. Please, stay. I'll talk my brother 'round, there must be another way. I'll do anything he wants. I'll take any case he gives me, regardless of its potential. I'll attend family Christmas dinner. I'll stop smoking - at least for a while..."

Sherlock had actually begged, whispering much too fast in a feverishly intense tone.

"Sherlock, stop it. You won't change his mind, it would just be humiliating."

"But there must be something..."

"There is nothing you can do, love." John had interrupted, more calmly than he actually felt. "Besides, I don't think it will be that bad. I'll be only gone for a few days, checking the post mortem reports of some Russian soldiers killed where they had no reason to be, resolve if they were wounded in action and if so, by whom. I'll be back in a jiffy. You probably won't even notice I'm gone, considering the usual attention you pay relating to me being present or absent."

Sherlock's strange eyes had fixed him with a grave look. "Don't lie to me, John Watson."

"I'm not lying to you, Sherlock." He had assured his clearly disturbed lover.

And then Sherlock had kissed him, hungry and fierce. John had given himself over, sensing that Sherlock needed this to be reassured that all would end well. The kiss had soon grown desperate and John had pushed Sherlock down on their sofa and had knelt on the floor in front of him between his spread legs, eagerly unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, pulling them down with his pants.

He had started to suck Sherlock's already half hard cock until it was fully engorged. Then he'd pushed Sherlock's legs even wider apart, pushing Sherlock's knees up into his chest, while his mouth had moved south over his perineum, down to Sherlock's tight pink hole. It had deliciously fluttered under the administration of John's tongue while Sherlock had made most peculiar and fairly sexy noises.  
When he had finally been slick enough, John had unzipped quickly and pushed into the wet heat of Sherlock's body in one move, tilting long, white, sinewy legs over his shoulders and stroking Sherlock's cock in time with his thrusts. It hadn't been long before Sherlock's eyes had rolled back in his head and his fingers had painfully curled around John's upper arm, clinging on for dear life.

But just before they both tipped over the edge, John had pulled out and forced himself to still, despite his balls being achingly drawn tightly against his body. He had loosened his grip on Sherlock's cock, patting his hands away as Sherlock had tried to finish himself off.

"Stop it." John had grunted and as Sherlock had still been fidgeting, he had pinned his wrists above his head against the back of the couch. "We will go through with this when I come back. Before that, no touching. Am I understood?"

Sherlock had gazed up at him in astonishment, slowly nodding.

"Promise?" Sherlock had huffed, his voice shaky and rough.

"Promise." John had answered.

After that, John had pulled his trousers up and started packing. When the black car came gliding up against the curb in front off 221b Baker Street at the crack of dawn the next morning, Sherlock had for once been vast asleep and John had been able to slip out of their flat without so much as a good bye, leaving destroyed dwellings and a potentially endangered detective behind for Mycroft to deal with. After all, that's what family was for, wasn’t it?

\------------------------------------------

Perhaps his thoughts had distracted John a moment too long, for he didn’t see it coming.

A tall figure dressed in black launched himself onto him and for just a fraction of a second John believed it to be Sherlock, trying to get the better of him by playing a practical joke. But as one strong arm wrapped around his neck, choking him, while a leather clad hand covered his mouth he could smell his assailant and there was no mistaking his odour of rancid sweat, stale beer and something verbatim fishy for Sherlock’s familiar scent.

John tried to fight back as good as he got but couldn’t get any leverage, gasping helplessly for air instead. He desperately tried to pull free of his attacker, racking his fingers over the muscular arms that pressed tight against his throat and chest but to no avail. His legs started to give out due to lack of oxygen and when his vision blurred, his last coherent thought before all went dark was: “Fuck, Sherlock, I hate to admit it but you were probably right…”

\-------------------------------

When Sherlock had woken up just after six o’clock in the morning he had been alone, not only in his bed but, he had sensed, also in the flat. John had been clearly gone for hours, his side of the mattress already cold. It had felt chilly, empty and neglected. No, to be honest, Sherlock had felt chilly, empty and neglected; the flat had been utterly and infuriatingly indifferent to not harbouring Dr. John Watson at this very moment.

Sherlock had curled in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, only to remember the last time they had rested in this spot; a faint hint of pink had risen in his cheeks. He had seriously contemplated to break his vow to John but then decided that it would not be worth his sure as hell to follow punishment. Besides, breaking this promise might actually bring bad luck; not that Sherlock was prone to superstitious thoughts but one could never be too careful if the person one… went to bed with… had been sent on a mission by one’s supposedly enormously dangerous elder brother.

Sherlock had instead opted for a hot shower and an even hotter tea, trying to fill the void inside him with warmth. But he continued to stay fretful and twitchy all morning ; not even his violin had been able to sooth his dark mood.

About 11 o'clock his phone had pinged with an incoming message: 

_Ugly city. Rude folks. Stale beer. Miss you._ \- JW

Always one for romantic cooing! Sherlock did not deign to grace this note with an answer. It was John's own fault, after all. You can't have your cake and eat it!

_You're sexy when you're pouting._ \- JW

Fuck you, Sherlock had silently huffed.

_Any time soon._ \- JW

Sherlock had stared at the screen of his mobile for a whole minute, unblinking, before shoving it between the sofa cushions, determined to ignore it for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Hudson had popped in around midday, surveying the damage to her property, making disapproving noises and frowning upon the state of the rooms while sidestepping Sherlock’s trail of destruction on tiptoe to bring him his post. After delivering the few letters, she had dared to enter the kitchen to have a look in the fridge, because John had made her promise to maintain Sherlock sufficiently fed and hydrated while he was away. Her shrill scream had told Sherlock that she had found the two human hands currently resting peacefully on the middle shelf but was unable to appreciate their scientific value – as was he, at least at moment, due to his unusual edginess.

“For the love of god, Sherlock, do you have to keep such disgusting… _things_ … among the food?” His landlady had inquired faintly.

“What food? Is there actual food in the fridge?” Sherlock had shouted back, sounding alarmed. “If so, please dispose of it immediately, otherwise spores might contaminate my experiment.”

“Contaminate your…? Oh, you are a horrible man, Sherlock Holmes, I really don’t know how John puts up with you!” Mrs. Hudson had huffed indignantly as she retreated to her own flat, leaving her one remaining tenant behind with a leering smile on his face, sighing longingly: “He just knows how to keep me in check.”

After this encounter the day had dragged on. Sherlock vaguely remembered that there had been a client – dull, merely a three, solved without leaving the flat – and some sandwiches miraculously appearing by his side – uneaten, stale by now – accompanied by a meanwhile cold cup of tea, from which he had at least taken a few sips before abandoning it to the fate many tableware suffered in this household (eking around the flat until fluffy mould was growing in them, finally being thrown away either by John (blustering) or Mrs. Hudson (nagging)).

John had send another text in the evening.

_Arrived. Stopping over. Tell your brother I already hate him._ \- JW

Tell him yourself, Sherlock had thought.

His main activity the whole day had been chain smoking, now that he was free to do so indoors, due to an unbearable lack of flatmate. If John thought it a good idea to leave him to his own devices, Sherlock would teach him a lesson. And perhaps, after his save return, John would teach him a lesson too. That trail of thought had made Sherlock smile again, but it was also leading toward forbidden territory; so, just to occupy himself with something before his brain was starting to rod, Sherlock had grabbed his Belstaff and left the still messy flat, immersing himself in the dark streets of London and the versatile distractions on offer there.

\---------------------------------------------------

John tripped down the stairs into hell. It reeked of a mixture of puke, beer, stale piss, fuck, sweat and fear. He must have hit his head somewhere, because blood was trickling down one side of his face but he was way too frazzled to be much concerned about it and neither were his abductors. They shoved him in a dimly illuminated room and he spun slowly round on unsteady legs, trying to keep his balance with his hands tied in front of him, taking in some details of his surroundings: concrete floor, concrete walls, both scattered with undefinable stains of... _something_. There were metal chains dangling down from the ceiling, fastened to some kind of gory meat hook. It reminded John of a film he had once watched with Sherlock, who – bored stiff – had explained quite peripateticly how improbable the unfolding horror scene had been ( _“It is absolutely impossible to scream like that when you are hung from the ceiling with a picket through your neck.”_ ). Not really helpful at the moment...

One of his minders stepped forward and pushed John up against the wall; a big hand nestled in his t-shirt collar. As John's face hit the concrete, he more heard than felt bones splinter and teeth crack. He tasted blood but being high on adrenaline prevented him from howling in pain, at least at the moment.

Another man came towards him and, while the first had him firmly pressed against the cold surface, yanked at the seam of his t-shirt, ripping it apart and away from John's torso. As he also pulled down John's pants forcefully, John felt an utterly inept sense of shame for being naked in front of these two strangers. The second guard said something in Ukrainian - was that even a language? John wondered, than wondered why he bothered - and the first one laughed in a very unsettling fashion.

Jesus fucking Christ, what were they about to do to him?

As it turned out, they really hung him with his bound wrists onto the chains, his feet merely touching the ground when he kept very still and stood on tiptoe. Then the beating started. At first, they used their bare fists to various parts of his body but you can only do this for a time - John knew from experience - before your own knuckles start bleeding with chafing; and you had to be very careful not to brake one of your own fingers.

That was why, after a while, they switched over to a rubber hose. This was especially nasty, for it curled around John's sweat slick body and burned terrible when ripped away, his skin clinging to it. After only a few lashes, his chest and back were covered with bright red welts.

John did not remember when he had started to scream but by now his yells resonated from the bare concrete walls and mixed with the laughs and unintelligible, but unmistakable chirpy comments from his torturers. They seemed to enjoy themselves enormously.

But despite the obvious delight they took in beating John sore, they were observant enough to register that their victim was near to passing out, for they stopped after a while, giving John time to compose himself. He tried to get his breathing back under control and bring his body into balance to recover just a little. He was fairly sure they were not done with him yet and tried to prepare himself for whatever they might have in store for him next.

The two man had retreated to a corner, sharing a smoke and talking in low voices. Then, suddenly, a mobile started chirping and was answered by the first guard, who merely listened for a minute or two before hanging up and walking over to John. He looked up and down his battered frame, eyes glittering in ecstatic anticipation.

John could smell cheap booze on his breath as he started to talk with a heavy accent: “Boss come next day. You waiting … with I and he.” He gestured towards his colleague, a malignant smile on his broad, otherwise immobile face.

“Lovely.” John managed to answer, the words only slightly blurred by the state of his mouth and teeth. “But tell me, what’s it like when your mother’s also your sister, mate?”

The man in front of him grinned, exposing nicotine stained dentition: “You funny man!” He exclaimed and then both men started to laugh, a sound that chilled John to the bone. They continued to converse in their local idiom – whatever that might be – but quite suddenly, the man in front of him slammed his knee decidedly into Johns crotch, still giggling, while John, unable to give into the natural reflex to topple over, being held up by his restraints, howled in pain, saw stars and felt bile rise in his throat. 

All air had escaped his lungs in a gush, so when the still burning stub of a fag was pressed down unto his left nipple, John inhaled sharply, smelling seared flesh. He was unable to hold back and started retching violently but luckily succeeded forcing his stomach content back down where it belonged. Choking on his own vomit was not the way he fancied departing this world, not even in this dungeon.

Regrettably but also foreseeable, the two thugs seemed to have acquired a taste for this new form of punishment, which allowed them to smoke and inflict pain at the same moment – thus killing two birds with one stone. Soon the room was thick with smoke and the distinct smell of charred meat, reminding John rather blissfully and totally inappropriately of happy Sunday afternoon barbecues, now long gone by, in a far away country. 

The two men got rather fanciful with him, pressing hot glowing butts to the sensitive skin on the inside of his arms, the small of his back, even his pubic bone. The pain was sharp and John hissed with every new burn he received but much more unsettling was the total unpredictability were he might be hurt next. As his bullies savoured their smoke, the lapse between lesions was also volatile, keeping John's body alert and on the brink of panicking for an infinite duration.

But indulging one's passion quite too much eventually starts to wear off. Perhaps they had simply run out of cigarettes. John didn't know and was beyond minding; he was just glad when the two bastards stopped whiffing. His arms and shoulders hurt like hell, overstretched and held in a very uncomfortable position. He wasn't able to support his head any longer, so it lolled from side to side. His eyes burnt from smoke, sweat and blood, his tongue reminded him of sandpaper, nose and mouth were encrusted in dried grind, his legs shook violently in the effort not to move and hold his body in place. 

He wasn't sure how much more he would be able to take.

Even though his vision was blurred his inflamed eyes registered that one douchebag had got his phone out and was taking pictures of him. 

“Like what you see? Getting off on your handiwork? Wouldn't have taken you two for faggots, though.” John was startled at his raspy voice. “The goats around here must be really fugly if you prefer that moron over them.”

But instead of saluting John for - after all he'd been trough - still being able to come up with a sage one-liner, his warden just stared back at him blankly, slowly lowering his camera, then turning to ask his mate a question, who answered by shaking his head and giving a shrug.

“Oh, please forgive my insensitivity to local customs, dumbass.” John spat out with his last ounce of strength, before his head dropped and a shiver ran through him from head to toe.

“You funny?” His tormentor asked, bringing his face gallingly near to John's. “Eh?” He actually took John's chin in his dirty palm to push his head up almost tenderly, peering inquiringly into John's sore eyes. Then fingers started stroking his bruised cheeks, pushing back bloodcaked hair from his forehead, while the man mumbled something John did not understand, filling John's nostrils with his bad breath. John's stomach turned. 

His arms cramped up and his whole body spasmed. Unable to hold the puke back any longer, he sputtered it all over his assailant, leaving him covered in slimy brown sick. 

That did not go down well.

The man started to scream and curse – John was pretty sure of that despite not understanding one word – but his gestures were quite explicit. The second hagglefuck had started to laugh at first but when he came over to join his friend, he too became agitated fairly quickly. Soon both were yelling at John, who felt too exhausted to savour his small revenge. They started to push him around brutally but when he didn't respond the way they expected, they cut him down.

John's body just slumped to the ground, sharp pain shooting through him as his limbs came free and were finally allowed to change posture. Nearly fainting, his survival instincts prevailed just in time, for he managed to curl up into a foetal position just before the two guys started kicking him brutally. He felt ribs crack and his shin got a nasty laceration but in the end even these two pigshits didn't fancy hanging around in barf soaked cloths, so they left John, naked and broken, on the floor.

Only when the door was slammed shut behind them did John notice that they hadn't asked him one single question. 

Well, he might be seriously fucked. 

Then he passed out.

\-------------------------------------

When all the world's a stage, it needs an audience and Sherlock, for all his extroverted manner, loved to observe the show called "Life in London" performed on his doorstep. To call him an innocent bystander wouldn't do him justice, though, because there was certainly seldom anything innocent about him when he decided to submerge himself into the tide of events that was surging through the capital.  
As he loathed noisy pubs (especially now, with the smoking ban in effect), felt claustrophobic in cinemas (besides, predicting the plot line was never met well), and thought it a good idea to avoid clubs after his latest experience, there were still many places he could frequent on a night-out.

First, he paid a visit to Scotland Yards evidence vaults, gaining access by using identification nicked from a certain DI. After being admitted, he knew exactly what he wanted and were to look for it. Some ten minutes later he singed out, with a nice stash of grass stuffed into one of his bulgy coat pockets.

He himself never got the hang of smoking spliffs, preferring much more stimulating substances but he was well aware of the street value of pot and used it to obtain the stuff he really wanted - not always drugs, by the way.

As he knew that his finances and bank accounts were closely monitored by his brother, it was impossible for him to pay cash for what he needed. So he had to barter and weed was as good a stake as anything. He also knew the right places to trade tit for tat.

Sherlock, for all his sometimes ostentatious poshness and snobbery, never was one to judge a book by its cover. He could mingle as easily with the homeless as he could with the landed gentry but he definitely preferred the outcasts over the fashionable crowd, finding them much less tedious and much more challenging. He liked to hang out with the loners, for they just let him be, seldom asked questions and often had quite a sensible, if crude, attitude to life, which suited Sherlock just fine.

Being familiar with the hiding places of London's hidden lowlife - railway arches, squats, derelict building sites, decaying factories - Sherlock did not have to search long for a group of dropouts who pointed him in the direction of his preferred supplier. He found him in a run down playground on a Bermondsey housing estate - at this time of night populated by smack-heads itching with scabies, crack smoking emaciated skeletons lingering in the shadows of the stairwells - sitting idly on a swing, reeling back and forth while suckling on a lollipop.

Sherlock was painfully aware that, like Mycroft controlled his financial matters, John closely checked on his body - so heroin was out of the question, even if it had a lovely soothing effect on him. John knew all the secret places his body offered to inject I and Sherlock shuddered envisaging what he might be in for if John found out that he had been using without John's consent - especially now, as Mycroft was aware of some of their a tiny bit unsound activities. 

Even cocaine was risky, for Sherlock preferred to shoot it up as well, unwilling to ruin his superior sense of smell by way of snorting it. But he desperately needed something to alleviate his spirits, so he finally decided to choose some E, dropping it on site, then wandering around, crossing the Thames via Tower Bridge, heading north through Shoreditch and Bow, strolling the streets of Whitechapel, following the bloody trail of Jack the Ripper and the Kray twins.

He seriously contemplated calling John, but was afraid that John might sense that he was high. Despite, he had left his mobile in Baker Street, for want of peace and fearing it was bugged.

Sherlock finally ended up in a punker squat in Spitalfields, blacking in and out in a strange flat in East London. Somebody he didn't really know gave him something to help settle him down and to stop him from thinking about John (had he actually been thinking out loud again?). He feebly thought that you should know your life was heading in a questionable direction when you were up for days with strangers and you couldn't remember anything except the way someone sounded when he told you that he loved you. At this party, which he had obliviously crashed, there was a rather large range of substances available to recreationally relax: cider, acid and something that reminded Sherlock of bathing salt.

At some point he accidentally might have snogged a slim and delicate boy with green hair and even greener eyes - he wasn't sure and it meant nothing, anyway.

In the end, he woke up on a bench vis-a-vis the Olympic stadium, grabbed a Latte from one of the hip organic coffee shops that lined the still deserted streets and took a cab home.

Survived another night, he inwardly congratulated himself, before retrieving his phone, checking for messages and, finding no new ones, shoving it irritatedly beneath some papers on his desk before heading for the shower to wash away his misery.


	24. Bothers in arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is forced to gird up his loins - reluctantly joining forces with his brother - if he wants to succour John. I'm sorry for the probably slightly teasing cliff hanger but I just couldn't resist...

John got kicked awake by the man he had puked all over hours (– days? – minutes?) ago. Perhaps he had changed his clothes but it was no big improvement, neither in style, smell nor attitude. But as John was barely able to open his eyes after receiving two hearty smacks, he couldn’t give a toss as to his keeper’s attire. After another thrash he finally managed to sit up, slowly jiggling backwards on his bare arse towards the nearest wall, because he felt too weak to stay up on his own account, all the while instinctively keeping his head down to protect it from being hit. John feared of one of his wounds spilling open and starting to bleed again. Only as his spine made contact with the damp cold concrete did he relax a fraction, slumping down a little, trying to breath around his damaged ribs. 

When John dared to carefully lift his head, he tried to blink his assailant into focus but the images blurred and kept spinning. John correctly diagnosed this as the effects of an at least mild concussion. His hearing seemed to be impaired too, for he was sure the bozo was shouting at him but his brain was unable or unwilling to translate the sounds into words. 

John knew he had to factor out his pain; heshould solely focus on surviving but felt dispiritedly smashed and crushed. This could proof dangerous, for it might lead to giving up, abandoning all hopes and that’s when his adversary would bear the sweetness of victory. 

Adversary? He had no idea whom he was up against, or why, or what was going on anyway. 

Concentrate, Watson! Pull yourself together. You have to! You promised!

So he gathered what strength was left within him and looked up again. His head nearly exploded but at least the brute had stopped hitting him and just glared down now, which had to be considered an improvement. John felt nauseated but pressed his lips tightly shut, breathing through his nose, forcing his thoughts away from the mess his battered body must be displaying to properly access his situation.

The bulk stood between him and the door, which was shut but perhaps not locked. They were alone, the other guard nowhere in sight. Grey light filtered through some dirty glass blocks inserted high in the wall to their right.

The man had stopped shouting too, which further enhanced the moo, and was now gesturing towards John, indicating that he should get up. As his hands were still bound, it took him two attempts to shuffle his bruised legs underneath himself. Had the process of getting up always been this tricky? He was quite proud as he finally stood on wobbly legs and nearly felt gratitude as his torturer grabbed him roughly by his upper arm to shove him forward, through the door, up some slippery stairs and out onto a concrete court yard.

There the second man was waiting, greeting John by dumping a bucket of icy water over him. The onslaught startled John, bringing him fully round and he gasped in shock, shaking his body like the beaten dog he felt, sending droplets flying. He instantly began to shiver and what was left of his teeth chattered so hard his jaw ached.

“What the fuck…!” John exclaimed as his tormentors roared with laughter. They still sneered when they eventually threw a greasy blanket over him (that John tried very hard not to scrutinise too closely) and shoved him in the back of a tattered army van – at least John assumed it served some military purpose, for it was painted in camouflage.

OK, then, John thought, here we go. 

As the car started to move, he was fairly certain that at the end of this journey he would either meet the ominous boss his abductors had mentioned – or a violent and altogether untimely death. Probably both.

\----------------------------------------------

Sherlock still felt wonky and confused from last night’s adventures and decided to treat his stiff body to a nice long soak, which actually calmed him down enough to indulge in some breakfast – consisting of tea and biscuits (contrary to public opinion, Sherlock was absolutely capable of looking after himself, _all right_ , thank you very much!).

Once again he entertained the option of phoning John – or at least texting him – but in the end couldn’t be bothered to end his sulk this early. John had earned himself an epic strop and Sherlock was not inclined to deprive him of it.

As he had smoked all the fags he had hidden in various places around the flat yesterday, he would have to do some shopping to continue wallowing in this vice. The precaution for shopping was dressing – too arduous, Sherlock decided, and therefore spent the whole day in his faded grey tracksuit bottoms and one of John's old t-shirts, turned inside out because he had pulled it from the hamper. He lounged in front of the telly, yelling at the obviously moronic talk show guests and the completely fatuous quiz shows until Mrs. Hudson came up threatening to remove the fuses if he wouldn’t turn down the volume.

Being deprived of yet another guilty pleasure, Sherlock decided to give some new books the chance to grab his interest. But while lying on the sofa his thoughts became increasingly preoccupied with the more carnal activities he had been up to lately on this specific piece of furniture. His treacherously filthy mind strolled leisurely away from the French textbook on 19th century Bertillonage it was supposed to occupy itself with, never once looking back but heading quite happily off into dangerous territory, whistling joyously.

This was unheard of and started to become truly irksome! Was he but a rutting mammal, unable to concentrate on anything but intercourse? There must be something to keep him busy before the devil would find work for his idle hands to do.

Speaking of hands, Sherlock contemplated finishing the experiment resting momentarily in the fridge but in the end decided he couldn’t muster the energy. 

That left him with… nothing to do, really, but passing the time watching the shadows fall in the flat and the dusk settling in on London. Under different circumstances, he would have loudly exclaimed that his brain was rotting because of this enforced faineance, describing the process in vivid detail to anybody – willingly or unwillingly – present and therefore bound to listen; even being alone wouldn't normally have dissuaded him from bemoaning the very plight of his existence… so why did John's absence entirely paralyse him and make all his otherwise much appreciated favourite pastimes appear washed out? 

What was the matter with him? 

His mind started wandering off again but this time in unsatisfactory circles, _spinning, spinning, spinning…_

He must have fallen asleep, for he was positively woken by his phone vibrating insinstently. His neck felt cricked from the unfortunate position he had rested in. The room was only lit by the orange street lamps shining through the windows. Sherlock rummaged around on the coffee table until he located his phone between The Times and an old copy of Mason’s Tropical Diseases – one never knew when that might come in handy. The glowing screen signalled one knew message. Browsing his inbox, he promptly found it but it hadn’t been send by John, as he had anticipated – or hoped? – but simply by an unknown and withheld number, thus barring 1471. 

**RE: ALL FLESH IS LIKE GRASS, AND ALL ITS GLORY LIKE THE FLOWER OF GRASS. THE GRASS WITHERS, AND THE FLOWER FALLS OFF**

Again, under different circumstances, Sherlock simply would have deleted the message, regarding the quote from the first epistle of Peter as some Bible thing or spam. But the pictogram next to the entry announced an attachment, Sherlock was virtually bored stiff and an anonymous threat would at least provide some diversion. Therefore he decided to open the text to entertain himself with its content. Perhaps some juicy images of a dismembering sent to him from a boosting serial killer suffering from hardcore Christian delusions, or a fanciful sadist elaborating some new creative method of torture? Gleefully, Sherlock started reading.

Well, be careful what you wish for…

Sherlock stared at the screen for about 30 seconds, shocked into total silence. Then he bolted from the couch, grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs to hail a cab, while doing the up until now unthinkable: ringing his brother.

\----------------------------------------

John had no idea how long they'd been driving by now but, trapped in the back of an old van, travelling on potholed country lanes without sufficient bumpers while suffering from dehydration, broken ribs and a concussion, it seemed way too long. There were no windows, so he hadn't the faintest where they might be heading. He had tried to find the least uncomfortable position to sit in on the bare metal floor but there was no escaping being pushed around and shaken up and down as his drivers seemed to enjoy hitting every cavity that opened on the road, putting the integrity of the vehicle to a thorough test. 

John's situation was not improved by the freezing cold creeping into the van, his desperate thirst, his burning stomach and his pounding headache. He only wished for his journey to end. Everything must be better than being jogged around in this filthy transporter.

They actually had pulled into a lay-bay twice - probably for his abductors to have a piss or grab some food - but John had remained locked up, no one bothering with him or his needs. Every time they had stopped, he had anticipated to be pulled from the back with a hood over his head and the muzzle of a gun pressed into his nape. But as humans are quite adaptive and can get used to almost all hardship burdened upon them, the cold fear that had curdled in his gut had slowly faded into the vague expectation of something perilous, finally leaving him more impatient than scared, just wishing for the drive to be over and the opportunity to face his enemy.

\-----------------------------------------------

"Sherlock, what an unexpected pleasure...," his brother was not allowed to finish his waffling verbiage; nor would Sherlock listen to his elaborate but utterly meaningless chatter.

"Shut up, Mycroft. I'm sending you a picture. We have to meet. Now!"

"Excuse me, little brother, but I'm in the middle of a rather important meeting with some cabinet ministers. I'm afraid your sudden demand for brotherly consolation will have to wait..."

"Mycroft, for fuck's sake, take a look!"

"Sherlock, what could possibly warrant this outburst of... _Oh_." The line went silent. "Meet me at my club in 15 minutes."

"Thank you."

"Sometimes you really scare me, brother mine."

Some ten minutes later Sherlock was discreetly ushered inside the inner sanctum of the Diogenes Club by silent clerks in padded galoshes. Mycroft already sat behind his rosewood desk, looking grave.

"Spare me the shouting, will you. Believe me, this whas not what I wished for, nor do I have any dealings in this business." Mycroft opened the conversation by addressing Sherlock's suspicions straight on. No sidetracking chit-chat - they might for once be agreed.

But old habits die hard: "He went on your orders!"

"Yes, but I wanted him looking into some medical files for me, not being abducted and tortured."

"Are you sure of that _blud_? He told me you knew about, well..."

"Too modest to spell it out? You never acted that sensible with Mummy."

"Stop this, will you. It's a petty feud, anyway."

"I totally agree with you."

"Well, do you now?"

"Who's wasting time now on already spilled milk?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply, forcing his temper down.

"Listen, Mycroft, if you have anything to do with this, I swear to you..."

"Why would I harm John?"

"Because he supplied me with drugs?"

There, now it was outi n the open.

"If I was to kill everyone who did that I would be quite busy, don't you think? For example, what about that twat down Bermondsey?"

Sherlock blushed slightly. "That was actually a four letter word, Mycroft."

They engaged in one of their legendary staring matches; this time, it was Sherlock who first averted his eyes.

"So," Mycroft was finally starting to talk business, "having established that, what do you want me to do?"

"Get him out!"

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"Well, as you did send him there in the first place, I thought you might have a plan B if something went wrong."

Silence fell between the two brothers.

"You must have taken some precautions. Mycroft, for god's sake, you can't have send John over there without some backup."

Mycroft intently scrutinised the ceiling. When he finally spoke, his voice was dripping with mockery. "What's it to you, anyway? You just play some kinky games with him. No, spare me the details, I really don't want to know. But it's just a bodily experience to you, isn't it? Something to entertain you, take the edge of things a bit when nothing more challenging or compelling comes up your path."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to avoid looking his brother. "As you said, you don't want to know." He muttered.

Mycroft fixed his brother with a serious gaze. "You know, brother mine, I actually care deeply for your well-being. No, hear me out." He raised a hand to stop Sherlock protesting. "And since you met John Watson, I'm not alone in that. That's an enormous condolence. But you have to help us, at least a little bit."

Sherlock just looked at his brother, overwhelmed, his skin tingling with a slight flush that spread down his body.

"What is he to you?" Mycroft asked, his words resonating with grave sobriety.

Sherlock's mind went blank. How could he possibly describe to his canny brother what John meant to him?

"Try me, Sherlock."

But Sherlock just glared at him. "I wont play your little games with you, Mycroft, not anymore." He hissed. "If you won't help John, I'll find another way." With that he turned and strode towards the leather padded door. God, he hated this pretentious place!

As his hand touched the doorknob, Mycroft's voice made him stop. "You are aware that you leaving this office in one of your infantile fits now will result in John being returned to you in a shroud, if at all, are you?"  
Sherlock froze, but didn't turn around.

"I need him!" He finally managed to press through gritted teeth.

"I know."

"You actually want me to beg?"

"I was told that is not very difficult to achieve." 

"Stuff it, will you, please." When Sherlock turned to faced his brother, he looked broken, shattered and painfully alone, reminding Mycroft of the brave little boy, who, a lifetime ago, had forced back his tears the day he had to part with his beloved dog before the pet was put down.

The British government suddenly felt a pang of sympathy, followed by a vague sense of shame. He came to a decision.

"I have to talk to some people, call in a few favours. Give me half an hour."

Sherlock just nodded, before collapsing in one of the leather arm chairs, his hands steepled under his chin. As he closed his eyes, he couldn't bar the image that arose in his mind, so he yanked them open again, unable to deal with the horrors creeping up on him.

He heard Mycroft mumbling into the mouthpiece of his phone but couldn't concentrate enough to actually take in what was negotiated. Therefore it surprised him when he suddenly felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly. 

"Get up, we're leaving."

"We?"

"The last time you saved John Watson, a man ended up dead. I'm just making sure it's not you, this time. No!" Mycroft held up both hands as Sherlock was about to launch some violent protest. "This is not disputable!"

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The two thugs had retreated after abandoning John in the middle of a shop floor littered with broken bottles, rubble and one or two dead pigeons. Shallow puddles glistened in rainbow colours.  
John slowly turned around, taking in his surroundings, peering into the dim twilight.

"Hello!" He shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. At the far end some birds fluttered up, startled by the unfamiliar sound.

"Hello!" John yelled again. This was truly getting on his nerves. He scuffled carefully forward on his bare feet, looking out for shards, not too keen on catching Tetanus in this shithole at the end of the world.

"You think this funny? Come on, show yourself, you sissy wankers!"

The only answer he got were soft footsteps, coming up behind him. He spun around, highly keyed up but then nearly burst out laughing hysterically as he encountered the person glancing in disgust at all the debris of which John, he was sure, looked a due part.

"You?" John finally managed to say, his voice ringing with disbelieve.


	25. Why don't you find out for yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is: the solution to our problem (but not the final problem...) Did you guess who was behind this coup?  
> Oh, and the moral to the story: honestly, never fuck a fucker!

_And when you're dancing and laughing_  
_And finally living_  
_Hear my voice in your head_

 

„You just can't get enough, can you?“ John was genuinely surprised. There stood a man he'd honestly never expected to see again, let alone abduct and torture him. What was he supposed to make of this?

“You're one to talk. I should have you shot the first time I had the chance in that tart’s lounge.” The tall blond man in the cheap suit sneered, his voice full of disdain.

“Yeah, but where would have been the fun in that… Neilson, was it?” John asked, showing his irritation. “But I just don't understand...?”

“You still don’t have that t-shirt?” The American was openly mocking him now.

“Aren't we supposed to be on the same side?” John was still trying to get a grip on the situation.

Neilson crocked a fair eyebrow: “I thought you'd been to Afghanistan. How can you still be that naive? The same side... wherever that even may be.” His cynical laugh echoed through the derelict building.

“Enlighten me, than. What am I missing?” John yelled. He really had enough. He was tired, cold and in pain; suddenly he didn't care for reasons or motives or background stories anymore, he just wanted this whole fucking business over and done with. Fed up with being taken on, he started to walk up to the bulky man.

“God, look at you. Britain's finest. Oleg and Victor have shown me some pictures of what they did to you and still you walk around like you ruled an empire and that proverbial never setting sun was shining right out of your tight little faggot's arse.” 

Had John's body not already been an aching mess he would have positively suffered physical pain at the broad Midwestern drawl he was forced to listen to. When you were living with a Holmes you learned to appreciate the refined characteristics of the English language and tended to forget that not all the world sounded like posh private school boys or the queen.

“Well, I am just used to a lot worse, you know. After forty years of shit weather, tongue and kidneys for breakfast, lunch and supper, smouldering coal fires, stale beer and thin coffee I am not that easily driven up the wall by some retarded dickheads with a hose pipe. I've had better.” John sniggered snottily while sneaking up toward the American.

“I totally believe you, Mr. Watson, especially regarding your living arrangements. I'm sure Mr. Holmes enjoyed the pictures I sent him immensely.”

“You did what?” Now John started to feel seriously pissed off.

Neilson made an unpleasant sound and it took John a moment to identify it as laughter. “Yeah, gave that cunt a good eyeful, as you say. I thought he wanted to know how his little fuckboy was enjoying himself while on holiday.”

John doubted that Neilson would appreciate it if he corrected the man's perspective on their relationship. Still, he couldn't believe that all this shit did come upon him because one man's need for revenge. “You did all that...,” John tried to gesture up and down his body but forgot that his hands were still bound; the movement came over rather clumsily. His embarrassment was enhanced by the dirty blanket slipping from his shoulders, revealing his naked, bruised frame. Nevertheless, he tried to continue with as much dignity as he could muster, hiding his vulnerability beneath fervent stride: “... just to get back at Sherlock? Don't you think having him humiliated in front of Irene and his brother was enough?”

“Enough? Do you know what these two motherfuckers have done to me?”

“I vividly remember the impact you had on Mrs. Hudson's bins.” John was unable to suppress a smile.

Neilson was now only a few feet away and John could smell his way too musky aftershave. Finally, the long anticipated gun was produced, aiming at John's forehead.

Neilson's voice was cold but his eyes burned with hate: “Did you know that your beloved Sherlock Holmes was to be shipped off to Eastern Europe on a suicide mission after blowing Magnussen's brain out in front of a whole SAS squad? Amateur! But his mighty brother intervene, and guess who else was chosen for the job?”

“You?” John sounded rather sceptical.

“Yeah, me. On some sort of British-American corporation scheme. So I spent nearly six month in Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Shitholestan, all Islamic, so no booze, no chicks, just dust and tribes and food that gives you the runs. I was stationed in London before, I was on the up and suddenly I found myself at the end of the world and all my career prospects up a tight-lipped paper-shuffler's arse, just because of these two bent fuckers. But then you came along, flown right onto my plate and I knew my prayers had finally been answered!” Spit flew from his mouth as his lips distorted into a manic grin.

John was used to interact with people going bonkers – not solely but predominantly through his acquaintance with a certain consulting detective – and even lunatics waving guns at him were quite a frequent occurrence in John's life but at the sight of the crackpot CIA agent in front of him a chill tingled down his spine. He instinctively tried to back away but his feet got entangled in the blanket. As he moved to shuffle free while not looking backwards, as to not take his eyes off the armed nutter before him, John tripped and fell. Unable to brace himself he landed hard on his back, abrading already bruised skin, bumping his head hard as it hit the concrete floor.

As John opened his eyes again, he saw stars and through the blurred fog creeping in on him he could just make out a tall silhouette bending down over him. He thought he saw the swirl of a dark coat at the peripehrie of his vision, and for a moment smelled the familiar whiff of wool and tobacco and something spicy. John had to blink a few times until Neilson's rather bland features came into view and for a fraction of a second he thought back to all the stories he had heard from comrades and patients with near-death experiences: your life reeling backwards, reliving important occasions, calling for the most loved person in your life (usually the wife or mother), and now John had to admit that, although he had always doubted them, there might actually be a grain of truth in what they had told.

Neilson stubbed his cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Hey, stay with me, Mr. Watson, the best is still to come.”

“Fuck you! Finish this while I'm still conscious, you sodding Yankee bastard!” John hissed.

“But we have all the time in the world, so why hurry?” Neilson continued to caress John's face with the muffler of his revolver, squatting down over his naked body, rubbing the notch tentatively along John's split lower lip. “Open and suck!”

John spat him in the eye and congratulated himself on his still functioning aiming skills.

Neilson moved away a fraction and disgustedly rubbed the saliva from his face, smearing his wet fingers over John's chest afterwards. His features started to contort in fury while colouring a deep beetroot.

“You little queer fuckshit! I'll have you cursing your bitch of a mother for bringing you into this world before I 'm finished with you.” The oily barrel hit John's mouth, cracking his lips open again. Blood gushed down John's chin.

“Now.Open.And.Suck!”

John pressed his lips tightly shut, squeezing still more blood. He wouldn't give this turd the satisfaction to humiliate him any further, come what may.

“You're unwilling to cooperate? Honestly? Well, my pleasure. 'Cause I will make you.” John's whole field of vision was filled with an angry red face; beyond lay only darkness.

“That would be tremendously ambitious of you.” A cool posh voice came from above. John couldn't help it, he started giggling as he finally believed in all the esoteric stories. Well, then, let's see if there's actually a light at the end of the tunnel, harping angels on fluffy clouds, eternal peace... because he sure as hell was dying if he heard Sherlock's voice while being beaten up by a crazy American agent in a derelict building in the middle of nowhere.

Perhaps he was _already_ dead, having hit his head more severe than he had anticipated?

“Would you have at least the decency to stop giggling while I'm saving your quite delectable arse once again, John Watson?”

Yes, definitely the afterlife! John's whole body shook with hysterical laughter.

But then Neilson's face pulled away while John heard him snarl: “Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what a surprise. I should have put a bullet in your brain, too, while I had the chance.”

“Yes, you should have. Now, drop it, and get away from John Watson. I have a reputation for sporting quite a nervous trigger finger when my blogger is concerned.” Sherlock's voice was stern. John had only heard him talk like this once before – in front of high glass windows on a patio somewhere in a field in Hampshire. That day had ended with the man threatening John gunned down, blood and brain matter seeping from Magnussens's smashed skull.

John finally came round to accept the scene before his eyes as at least one form of reality: Sherlock, clad in his Belstaff, pressing a gun to Neilson's nape.

“And why shouldn’t I just shoot your pet now, only to see your astonished face as a reward?”

“Because you wouldn't be able to enjoy it for very long, and no power on earth could protect you from my notorious bad temper.” Sherlock's face was hard and white like marble. “On the other hand, rescuing Doctor Watson from his two evil Ukrainian abductors could do wonders for your career. My brother would surely whisper a word or two into the right ears, thus clearing your name. You would be a hero. Perhaps someone might even pin a medal to your chest in due time.”

A gun clattered on the floor as Neilson stepped away a few paces.

“Turn around.” Sherlock quickly cuffed the American to a nearby rusty metal beam.

When he bend down to John his face was pinched with sorrow. “John, are you all right?” Sherlock asked while cutting John's ropes with his jacknife in one swift move.

John made one of his weak and numb hands move by sheer willpower to touch Sherlock's cheek. “It's really you,” he mumbled, still totally gobsmacked. “So I'm not dead.”

“I very much hope so. Otherwise, all the hardship I've been through during the last 12 hours would have been in vain. You can't image the hotel Mycroft booked us in! He#s such a that petty grouch.” Sherlock sighed as a slightly crooked and rather fond smile appeared on his face.

“Actually, I can.” John smiled back. “And talking of hardship, of course, a bumpy drive and a springy mattress totally outstrip my last few days. You git! By the way, do you see a chance of us leaving now. I do really feel a bit queasy.”

“Can you get up?” Sherlock helped John first into a sitting and then to a standing position. Looking around and finding only the soiled blanket as a cover, Sherlock took off his Belstaff and wrapped it around John's shoulders.

“Are you all right?” He asked again. Repetition only featured in John's world when Sherlock was truly shaken.

“I'm fine, Sherlock.” 

“OK, Mycroft's outside with a few SAS men and some paramedics. Off you go. I'll just need a minute with our ally over there.”

John looked from Sherlock to Neilson, then back to Sherlock. His face was set and composed, betraying nothing and honestly, John didn't give a fuck. So he just shrugged and said “Don't be too long, I honestly could kill for a bath, some chips and a drink.” With that, John made his way to the opening in the far wall Sherlock had indicated as the exit.

When John was fout of earshot Sherlock strolled over to where he had restrained Neilson to a girder.

The American sneered at him but that look was promptly wiped off his face as Sherlock drove his jackknife through his cheek and tongue, twisting it with blatant pleasure as Neilson could only make spluttering sounds as his mouth filled with blood.

“I thought you had learned your lesson last time but you are obviously way dafter than I thought you were. Have you ever heard about the Kray twins? No, probably not, you Americans are always so ignorant when it comes to history. But sometimes it's actually quite useful. And inspiring. They used to inflict a form of punishment called Chelsea smile. You can still encounter some old crooks wearing it in the less hip pubs in the East End...”

The smile on Sherlock's pale face was eerily radiant. As he slowly removed the blade Neilson coughed blood oton the front of his t-shirt.

“We had a deal!” He was barely able to talk due to pain and injury, spitting the words out through gritted teeth.

“Well, sorry, high functioning sociopath.” Sherlock pointed a thumb towards his own chest. “I lied.” Then all the humour faded from his face. “You will die in here. And it won't be quick.”

That said, he pressed the muzzle of his gun to Neilson's right knee cap, but only pulled the trigger when he heard the characteristic sound of helicopter rotor blades, drowning out all other noise.

\---------------------------------------------

Sherlock found John in the capable hands of a RAMC paramedic, having swapped the Belstaff for a rather less fashionable but altogether more useful silver thermal shock blanket. Mycroft stood next to the now blissfully silent unmarked helicopter, talking to the pilot.

As Sherlock approached John, the still active army doctor tactfully retracted, after briskly announcing “Five minutes.”

“What have you told them?” Sherlock gestured around, encompassing the small group of people gathered on the patch of wet grass.

“Nothing. I was just ushered to this Jeep to be taken care of.”

“So you have not spoken to my brother yet?”

“No.” John frowned. He was just very tired, his head pounded and he was definately absolutely totally not interested in witnessing another round of _'Who's the smart one'_. “Why?” John asked nevertheless but his exhaustion was clearly showing.

“Because, tragically, Mr. Nielson had a fatal mishap.” Sherlock's eyes were still roaming the clearing, avoiding John. As John looked him curiously up and down he was unable to ignore the blood splatters on Sherlock's shirt.

“Oh...” was all John could come up with.

“Yes, _oh_. And as I am not too keen on owing my brother for hushing up yet another killing committed by me, I very much advise you to conceal the involvement of our American friend. Otherwise it may take some time before you will be allowed to keep your promise.” 

John mulled over this new information for nearly 30 seconds.

“But what if Oleg and Victor grass him up? I very much doubt they'll keep mum when seriously interrogated by this lot.”

“Don’t worry about them.” At John’s questioning look, Sherlock elaborated: “They had an accident.”

“Them too?” John asked, sounding actually a little bit put out. “What a hazard!”

“Honestly, John, that actually was an accident. I'm not on a revenge killing spree. Their van crashed against a tree about a mile from here as they fled the scene when our men arrived. No seat belts, so…” Sherlock trailed off, shrugging his shoulders.

“Good!” John exclaimed, feeling a wave of relief crushing over him. “That’s… good, I suppose.” He repeated after a few seconds, tuning his blithe elation down a fraction to sound a bit more appropriate.

Sherlock just gave a short nod.

“So, is he dead than?” John felt obliged to ask after a short silence, his head indicating towards the hangar and all that might be held within.

Sherlock looked directly at John for the first time since emerging from the hangar. “Oh no, not yet.” His eyes hardened. “How long do you expect a cuffed man to survive in these conditions, with two shot knees, a slashed up face and a rather unpleasant cut to his abdomen?” His thin smile was vicious.

John returned it: “Well, the cold might actually slow down the blood loss. If no vital organs or arteries have been lacerated...?” Here John glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head, “Well, it might actually take some time.”

“I think this place must be crawling with rats after nightfall...” Sherlock mused. “Imagine watching rodents gnawing hungrily away at your bowels while you are cuffed to a pillar, helpless, unable to fight them off. I did refrain from carving his eyes out with my bare fingers so not to impair his vision.”

“I really appreciate the gesture.” John honestly did – which might be the reason he and Sherlock got on so well. “I only hope never to piss you seriously off. My mutilated body would probably bar recognition.”

“Don't worry, it would never be found.” With that, Sherlock got up. “I have to inform my brother that, despite an extensive search on my part, there was no one else around when I found you. It's a bit sad, though, that he will never be aware of all the diplomatic irritations my discreet and precise actions have spared him.” A rueful smile spread on Sherlock's face.

With that, he strode off in the direction of the helicopter, while John's provisional treatment was continued.

\-------------------------------------------------

They are flown back to Kiev in the helicopter. Mycroft negotiated safe conduct with whatever power's that be, or at least that's what Sherlock assumes and John imploringly hopes. In Kiev, they change transport, getting on a private jet owned by some oligarch who owes one of the Holmes brothers – John is not quite sure which one – a favour.

They touch down at London City Airport eight hours later where an ambulance is waiting and no matter how put out Sherlock is by the arrangement, both Mycroft and John insist that John spends at least one night at a proper hospital to monitor his condition thoroughly, what with him suffering from concussion and broken bones.

Of course, Sherlock dismisses all these injuries as petty and even calls John a malingerer but after some more fussing and complaining he eventually agrees to climb into the ambulance as well to accompany John to the destined military hospital. As the paramedic spots Sherlock's bloody t-shirt he offers him treatment as well but is silenced by the contemptuous look Sherlock shoots him in reply.

At the hospital, John is carted off to undergo x-raying, MRI, blood tests and a lot of other fancy stuff he sure as hell would not be entitled to under the NHS. Working for Mycroft Holmes does actually have its advantages as it comes with some benefits. If he asks nicely, perhaps they might just check his LDL for good measure?

Meanwhile, Sherlock is shown into a tastefully furnished if a little stuffy waiting room. There's strong coffee on offer, as are a few magazines that Sherlock not deigns to look at. Instead, he pours himself a coffee and takes a phone from one of his coat pockets – not his phone, but a mobile he retrieved from the sadist who is now lonely and painfully biting the dust some 5000 miles to the East. Scrolling through the photos stored on the device leaves Sherlock feeling weak and sick, to the point where he has to push his cup away before throwing up into a dainty paper basket originally installed to dispose of used plastic cups. 

There's also a video file but Sherlock simply does not have the stomach to watch John's ordeal captured in moving pictures and accompanied by sound, so he deletes it unseen. He's not sure what else he might have done to that pile of shit posing as a human being had he known about this back in the Ukrain but is fairly certain that cutting off some minor extremities would have been the least. 

At this moment, his brother is looking in on him and, registering Sherlock's evidently poor state, fetches him a bottle of water and a packet of crisps. After forcing both unto Sherlock and down his throat Mycroft rewards his still obviously disturbed little brother with a much appreciated cigarette. They share a smoke right beneath the "No Smoking!" sign, feeling a little reckless, like naughty schoolboys secretively indulging in an illicit vice, united in the pleasantly tingling fear of getting caught. 

When they have finished, Mycroft discreetly arranges for Sherlock to be accommodated in John's designated room before taking his leave, instructing one of his minions to deal with the paperwork regarding John's discharge the following day.

The room John is finally allocated to is larger than the one he occupies at Baker Street, offering a bed made with expensive sheets containing an already sleeping consulting detective, rolled up on his side, still in his ragged tracksuit bottoms and the ratty t-shirt John only just now recognises as one of his own. 

He takes a minute to watch Sherlock before he climbs into bed, and can't help thinking how thin and tense he looks, how vulnerable and how devastatingly beautiful. John's last thought as he falls asleep next to his jaded lover just as the sun comes up over London is that they are definitely keeping that t-shirt. John will make Sherlock wear it again when they finish what they had started before he left on this utterly disappointing mission. He's pretty sure that fucking Sherlock wearing nothing but this garment, sporting the blood of the second man he'd killed for John like some archaic mark of devotion, will turn out to be dead erotic and immensely satisfying. Smiling a little to himself, he closes his eyes, anticipating sweet dreams.


	26. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are back home but that's not making it any easier.

_And walked upon the edge of no escape  
And laughed, "I've lost control"_

It actually felt a tiny bit awkward, after all the buzz of the past few days, to be back home, in their flat, just the two of them.

John had been discharged from hospital in the early afternoon. Beforehand, the doctors had discussed the test results with him, instructing him to tread softly because of his prevailing concussion and the cracked ribs. Additionally he was endowed with a nice bottle of Metamizole, advising generous doses to keep the pain at an acceptable level, and ointment for the burns. His lacerations had been stitched up but colourful bruises bloomed all over his face and body; upon taking a look at himself in a mirror, John thought he bore a striking resemblance to Frankenstein's creature.

He felt tattered just after being driven home to Baker Street (in one of the sleek black cars at Mycroft’s disposal) and climbing up the stairs left him breathless and weary.

Opening the door to their flat only added to his fatigue, for he discovered that Sherlock apparently had neither deemed it necessary nor worth his while to to tidy up the mess caused by his violent raging before John's departure. John looked around disgruntled while slowly making his way through the wreckage to retire into his armchair. From there, he grumpily watched Sherlock fidgeting around, obviously unsure of what to do with himself at the sight of his injured and therefore oddly futile flatmate (lover?) who was definitely not cheered up by the state of his surroundings.

“I could clean up a bit.” Sherlock offered, struck by rare empathic insight.

“Yeah.” John snorted, stoically observing his flatmate (lover?) reshuffling some papers, straightening a cushion on the sofa and putting some scattered books back onto their shelves, albeit not substantially improving the condition of the room. As the enormity of his endeavour dawned on him, Sherlock's actions quickly lost their impetus and he ended up slumped down in his own chair, facing a frustrated John who barked despite his fatigue: “Let me guess, while _I_ was away, busy being beaten to a pulp, _you_ were totally preoccupied with...?” he trailed off exasperated, deftly crossing his arms in front of his chest before remembering that this was maybe not a good idea, given the sad state of his torso.

Sherlock made a vague gesture with his right hand that could either encompass just their sitting room or the whole of London before answering aloof: “Well, as you know, John, there's always something.”

John let his eyes wander around before fixing them on Sherlock's face. “Yes, and of course, it's always my fault. Why do I still cling to my sad hopes?”

Sherlock's features lit up with a magnanimous smile. “I can't believe I lived to see the day where you realised the nitpicky pettiness of your pedestrian demands.”

John inhaled deeply and counted backwards from ten.

"You should take a shower." Changing the subject seemed preferable to picking up something and throw it at Sherlock, which would only add to the chaos. Despite, John felt obliged to advise Sherlock for good reason, as the detective still had not changed out of the cloths he must have been wearing for at least 48 hours. Crossing two time zones back and forth as well as sleeping in them had not improved their condition. By now he clearly felt uncomfortable in this unusually slack and informal apparel but seemed unsure if the situation allowed for him to pursue personal grooming while John was evidently unwell.

"Will you ... manage?" Sherlock asked a bit worried, simultaneously glancing yearningly down the passage on the end of which waited hot water and crisp clothes.

"Yes, I'm perfectly sure I will survive during the approximately 15 minutes you'll spend in the bathroom." 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "If you need anything..."

"...then I'll call Mrs Hudson. She seemed quite eager to be of service when we met her downstairs." 

It had actually been tricky to get past her and her keen attempts on fussing, as she had been exclaiming in a high pitched voice that John looked right out awful and in need of proper tendance. Thank god Sherlock was not prone to considerations regarding social niceties and had simply dragged John up the stairs, chastising their landlady for worsening John's condition with her shrieking, drawing indignant little noises from the poor woman as she retreated to her rooms, shaking her head in discontent.

As Sherlock was still hovering, looking sceptical, John exclaimed: "For fuck's sake, I'm not a wilting flower but you, Sherlock Holmes, are in desperate need of a wash, so, off you go! At once!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to huff as he turned, slightly miffed, before strolling excruciatingly slow towards their bathroom, removing his t-shirt on the way to allow John to take a good long look at his exceptionally lovely lean back. "Well, if you do insist..." he pouted.

"I absolutely do!" John had a hard time to stifle his laugh for the sake of coming over resolute.

A quarter of an hour later he had nearly dozed off in his chair when a damp detective appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing evidently nothing but his blue silk dressing gown. He wavered, uncertain if he should wake John or let him rest, drying his hair with a towel.

John forced himself to sit up properly. "Better?"

"Just a fraction." Sherlock lied, for that might have been the understatement of the year. Confessing exactly how filthy he had felt before the shower would have directly related to the scale of sacrifices he had made for John, which would leave both of them embarrassed. That’s why right now, he couldn’t elaborate on the relief he had experienced when eventually able to wash all the smut and ordure from his body, finally starting to feel a bit like himself again.

"Where's my t-shirt?" John inquired casually. "It's one of my favourites."

"I binned it. It was ruined." At John's disapproving look, he condescended to explain: "Oh, come on, it was dirty, sweaty and soiled beyond saving with this bastard's blood.”

"It's a shame, nonetheless." John complained, despite being used to losing garments to Sherlock's whims.

“I'll buy you a new one."

“Still, won't be the same.”

Sherlock's mouth thinned. "Well, sorry that I butchered not only a man, but also a t-shirt while saving your life. Next time, I'll yield to your priorities."

They glared at each other. John had no idea why he suddenly felt so on edge and Sherlock, too, seemed totally overwhelmed by the situation, unable to pin down their state of affairs and therefore badly failing to cope. To make matters worse, he took to frustrated pacing, shooting annoyed glances at John from time to time from under his lashes.

John knew it was on him to relief the tension but as exhaustion threatened to overpower him he couldn't hold back and snapped: "Sherlock, please, could you just act like yourself. Or, better not! Just … leave me be, will you? I'm knackered. Watching you twitching makes me nervous. Just ... occupy yourself with something."

"But am I not supposed to take care of you?" Sherlock asked aggressively petulant.

"Please, don't. Just... don't, oK?" John sounded evidently alarmed at the prospect of Sherlock nursing him.

"Tea! I could make you... tea?" Sherlock offered a little bit calmer, obviously unsure if this proposal was appropriate.

John surrendered. "Fine. Great. Tea then."

Sherlock strode off into the kitchen, evidently relieved for being assigned to a specific task and, after a few minutes, produced an actually drinkable brew, serving it to John, who suddenly discovered that he had been longing for a builder's.

He took a few sips, closely watched by Sherlock, who awaited his next job.

"Do we by any chance happen to have anything to eat?" John inquired with somewhat little hope.

"I very much doubt it." Sherlock declared in a tone that sounded genuinely puzzled by such an odd request.

"Perhaps you could get some take-away, then?" John suggested encouragingly, smiling a falsely cheerful smile.

Sherlock stared at him for a full minute before registering that John hadn't been joking.

"You mean... _I_... should go out... and get some... _food_?" The idea seemed beyond anything he had ever considered doing.

"Yeah. Problem?"

Sherlock visibly pulled himself together. He could do that. Everybody could grab some Thai or Chinese or pop down to the chippy, so he would face this challenge and boldly tackle it.

"What are you having?" He asked briskly.

"I really don't care. Suit yourself. Get inspired." It was a risk worth taking, for it would keep Sherlock busy for a while and get him out of the flat, giving John time to rest.

\---------------------------

That was why Sherlock Homes, the world's only consulting detective and selfproclaimed high functioning sociopath, found himself at an – at least to him - up to date unknown Tesco Express in their neighbourhood some ten minutes later.

It was fascinating!

All these people!

The mingling!

The chatter!

Shopping habits revealed so much: the former well to do business woman, fallen on hard times and buying upmarket brands on offer or two for one, thus saving money while still being able to impress her friends, covering up the extend of her social decline; the students, who went for cheap cider and microwave pies to supply a sufficiently lipid basis for binge drinking later in the evening; the vegetarian couple - she longingly glancing over at the meat section, while her pony-tailed boyfriend filled their basket with lettuce, humus, lentils and bean curd, humming happily to himself; the tense single dad, who just grabbed some convenient foodstuffs - pizza, biscuits, sandwiches, jammy dodgers, Irn Bru - to appease his obese teenage sons.

If Sherlock had known about the variety of human lifestyle openly displayed at a supermarket, he’d been doing the shopping for ages. No wonder John always went down to the shops, securing a steady stream of edible provisions pouring into 221B!

But for all the intriguing observations, he was at a total loss as to what to get for dinner - supper - tea? He had to define the ideal intersection of at least five variables: a) What did John like to eat? b) What did Sherlock like to eat? c) What was on offer in a common supermarket around half six in the afternoon? d) What was considered appropriate food for the time of day? e) What could Sherlock actually prepare in a kitchen?

He marched down the aisles methodically, scanning the products, bearing in mind a) to e). Finally, after nearly an hour of intense inspection, he came up with the perfect meal, purchased what he needed and headed quickly home, proudly carrying his shopping up the stairs, acting opaque to the nature of the ingredients in order to surprise John, before disappearing into the kitchen to actually cook.

John, who had relocated to lounging on the couch, watched telly for the time it took Sherlock to buy whatever nourishments he'd choose (and John was well aware that this could encompass traditional English bachelor cuisine - beans on toast - but just as well fancy foreign recipes like Crepes Suzette or Entrecôte). But as he became aware that it might take some time before he would be able to grab a bite, John decided to retreat to Sherlock's bed. He heard Sherlock banging about in the kitchen, fearing the worst, but after a while a truly delicious smell started to spread through the flat.

Eventually, Sherlock appeared in the doorframe: "Shall I lay the table or would you prefer to eat in here?"

"Actually, if it's no trouble, I'd like to eat in bed."

"No trouble at all." With that, Sherlock disappeared back into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he came back to the bedroom, carrying a tray with two steaming bowls and a bottle of red wine.

"What's that?" John asked nonchalantly but concern lingered in his voice. It could be boiled frog for all he knew.

"Macaroni cheese." Sherlock clarified.

"Oh. Canned, I suppose?"

Sherlock looked affronted. "Of course not."

John braved himself and digged in - it was surprisingly delicious. He took another spoonful.

"That's... good... very nice... actually lovely... how did you know?" He was genuinely astonished.

"Well, someone once described this as soul food to me…" Sherlock sat down cross-legged on the bed opposite John, poking around in his bowl.

"That must have been a very clever girl."

“It was a boy.”

John arched an eyebrow.

“Do you really want to talk about my… _culinary_ … past during dinner?” Sherlock sighed.

John did deliberately not lower his eyebrow, smiling and nodding while greedily shoveling pasta into his mouth. He had been famished.

Sherlock watched John munch, experiencing the sweet and very rare sensation of having pleased someone important to him. Nonetheless, he pointedly steered the subject back on saver grounds. “It's really just organic chemistry, you know. Balancing the ingredients, producing a saturated solution."

"It's splendid. I had no idea that you could cook." John took a swig from the wine bottle before inhaling more noodles. "But I really shouldn't be surprised that you mastered this, as everything, with perfection."

"Well, you should by now be aware that I relentlessly pursue perfection in any field deemed worth my attention." Sherlock smiled before taking a gulp from the bottle himself.

They lounged lazily in bed, eating, drinking wine.

"You never talk about your past." John remarked in between two bites.

"And I won't change that at present." Sherlock retorted, smiling good-humouredly.

"Fair enough."

John had emptied his bowl. Sherlock drank some more wine.

"Finished?"

Sherlock carried the crockery to the sink but decided to skip the washing up – it did actually not really matter, regarding the overall state of the flat - and instead returned to their cosy bedroom.  
There the mood had slightly changed.

John looked hungrily up at him: "Dessert?"

"I haven't prepared anything. My cooking skills do not extend to pudding."

"I wasn't talking about sweets." John’s voice had gone dark.

Sherlock blinked.

"You are not entirely fit to... you know..." he trailed off rather shyly, waving his hand above John’s outstretched body.

"No, definitely not." John confirmed, before tossing a t-shirt at Sherlock.

"But..." Sherlock sounded incredulous.

"I retrieved it. Now, do me a favour: put it on."

Sherlock, somewhat dazed, asked slowly: “You want me to wear this… garment… in bed?”

John just smiled salaciously up at him. “I found it pretty hot what you did to that fucker.” Even his voice had a lewd note to it.

Sherlock blushed deliciously, averting his eyes, creasing the worn fabric in his fist.

“That's pathetic!” The words should have come out way smugger but Sherlock was betrayed by a little excited hitch in their delivery, as well as by his rapidly dilating pupils.

“First and foremost, I wasn't asking a question.” John's voice was gentle but he stared Sherlock down quite suggestively.

Sherlock was done, and he knew it.

Slowly, he started to unbutton his dark blue shirt. He had removed the cuff-links earlier, rolling his sleeves up while cooking. The veins on his forearms stood out prominently, something John had always found particularly erotic.

Sherlock left the shirt hanging open on his slim frame, revealing a sliver of creamy skin as the dark fabric parted while he unzipped his trousers, shoving them down and cleverly removing his socks in one go. Only then did he eventually shrug off his shirt, dropping it to the floor where it landed with a soft whisper in a crumpled pile.

John could see the outlines of Sherlock's already half hard cock trough the thin material of his pants. Suddenly, they appeared quite dispensable.

"Pants off, too." John demanded, voice hoarse.

Sherlock obeyed, but took his time, casting his eyes down coyly while shimmying out of his grey boxer briefs. In the dim light he looked painfully fragile and surprisingly young with his glowing white skin, stretched taught over hard muscle, and his dark fringe fawning over his tilted face. His hip bones protruded sharply and John desperately wanted to touch the delicate skin cast in shadows down the dips near his groin. The joints in his shoulders were prodigiously perceptible as he bent forward to step out of his underwear, accentuating his slender built. Sherlock just stood there for a moment, holding himself very still, suppressing the urge to cover his leaking prick with his hands while John's eyes roamed his beautiful naked body, savouring the sight, admiring the stark contrast between pale skin and dark curls, tender flesh and firm thews.

Sherlock had dropped the soiled t-shirt onto the bed while stripping. Now, John had to remind him of it and, as he was no more prone to repetition than Sherlock, sounded somewhat fierce as he had to draw Sherlock's attention back to what was demanded of him.

_“Put.It.On!”_

Sherlock new this tone only too well and shivered, both in fear and anticipation. Guessing correctly that John would very much like to revel in the act itself, he didn't rush but bid his time, languidly pulling the thin t-shirt over his head, stretching his whole body that the defined muscles in his chest, arms and abdomen were clearly visible. He shook his curls, sending them bobbing around his face in a dark halo and smoothed one hand down the front of the shirt. His fingers brushed over the incriminating dark stains before finally resting on a small patch of bare stomach below the hem, inches above his hard cock straining upwards, the glans already shining wet.

Only then did he lock eyes with John.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” John exclaimed in a coarse whisper. “Do you actually know how dead sexy you are like this?”

Sherlock huffed a timid laugh. A thick drop of pearly precome ran down his shaft and made John gasp. “Now then, not totally immune to flattery, are we? God, I honestly have to keep myself rigidly in check to not just suck you off right now.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, closing his eyes as this specific scenario started to play out vividly in his mind. His hand moved lower absentmindedly, seeking to meet the demands of his aroused body, while he unconsciously skipped his head back, straining his exposed long neck.

“What do you think you are doing?” John's harsh voice rudely brought Sherlock back to reality and his hand yanked away before it could curl around his leaking cock. His eyes flew open and his breathing sped up as a desperate low moan escaped his throat.

“John, please...”

“You only touch yourself when I tell you to do so, are we understood?”

“John...”

“Blimey, Sherlock, what is it with you? You do as you are told, or I will have you standing to attention the whole fucking night with your hard cock miserably dripping on the carpet, _so.you.better.behave!_ ” His voice had risen towards the end of the sentence, making it quite clear that he was not to be disobeyed.

Sherlock, suddenly willing to make an effort when confronted with this perspective on things, kept his mouth shut and just nodded once, fisting his hand in the seam of the t-shirt to avoid provoking John any further.

“There you are.” John said, a fraction more gentle. “I hope you have met your side of the bargain?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Good boy. So, how long has it been, then?”

“97 hours 36 minutes.” The answer came quick as a shot.

“That's … very precise.”

Sherlock grinned smugly but the smile was soon wiped from his face as smugness was definitely not what John expected of him right now.

“Don't get smart with me, Sherlock.” John growled in a dangerously low voice. “Me being unable to rear you properly in right now doesn't mean I can't have you severely punished later. I actually brought a few ideas back from my trip. You know what they say about travelling expanding your horizon? Well, beating you with a hose pipe would be quite delicious, don't you think? I'll have you begging me for it to start and then I'll make you count.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily, whispering: “God, yes, please…”

“And if I'll ever catch you smoking again, I'll feed you your own medicine. I'll let you light up and then I'll char your rosy nipples. Maybe I’ll allow you another drag before moving down to the sensitive insides of your thighs, stubbing the glowing butt out right there, while you fruitlessly try to squirm away from the heat and pain. It'll hurt like hell, I can assure you. Imagine your screams when I suck on your burnt flesh, licking and biting your broken skin.”

Sherlock moaned deep in his throat and his cock jerked enthusiastically.

“God, you are actually getting off on that, you dirty little painslut. Come on, get over here.”

Sherlock's cheeks were burning as he nodded in affirmation and stepped up to the bed. His cock was so hard it hurt, milky fluid dribbling down its length, pooling in a wet spot on the sheets below, and his balls were already drawn up tightly against his body. He would be positively coming untouched if John continued talking like this, planting obscene ideas in his mind, which obligingly – but at the moment a bit too eagerly - transformed them into shockingly indecent images, picturing his darkest desires.

He forced himself away from these thoughts. John wouldn't be pleased with him at all if he orgasmed like a teenager just from a bit dirty talk.

“Tell me what you're thinking about?”

“Please, no… I can't...” Sherlock couldn't possibly open this dire vault of unsound passion and perverted fantasies.

“You can and you will.” John sounded very firm.

Sherlock swallowed audibly. “But it is so… very… dirty.” He nearly choked on his embarrassment.

“I really hope so.” John smiled a wicked smile. “I won't ask you a second time, so you better get going.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily through his nose and lowered his gaze onto the floor. “I want you to do this to me… what you were talking about… all of it. I want you to hit me so hard that all I can do is scream your name while my mind goes blank. I'll be sobbing in pain, I'll be begging you to stop but you continue to whip me until my skin splits open. Blood would be running down my body as you touched me, smearing it over my face, pushing your fingers into my mouth, making me suck and lick my own blood from your hands. After a while, you'd push your wet fingers up my arse and fuck me with them for hours, until I'm red and sore, making me come again and again. Every time I beg you to stop you would just lash out again with the pipe, until I'm reduced to a quivering mess, entirely at your mercy, for you to use as you wish. Perhaps you would fuck me eventually, or perhaps you would just keep me like that for days, using and beating me, until finally, when all I'm begging you for is to just end it, you would put your hands around my throat and squeeze and squeeze until I can't breathe anymore but you won't stop even as I started shaking, you won't stop… you won't stop...” Sherlock trailed off, unable to focus on his own words any longer, which had just tumbled from his lips in an erratic cascade of want and need and absolute surrender. 

He couldn't look at John. 

He was so turned on by the whole scene that all he could hear was his own heavy breathing, his blood pounding in his ears, as heat pooled in his belly while his climax approached inexorably. He would not be able to withhold it any longer.

"Touch yourself." He heard John whisper, evidently deeply affected by Sherlock's confession, finally delivering him from his misery.

Sherlock needed no further invitation. He grabbed his slick cock and pulled roughly, speeding up quickly to enlarge the blissful friction he so desperately craved. It only took a few moments before he was coming hard, groaning, shooting thick stripes of semen on the bed, nearly hitting John in the face, who watched enthralled as Sherlock came apart. Visibly shaken by aftershocks, he had to brace himself with on hand on the mattress to not just melt jellylike onto the floor.

"God..." was the only thing Sherlock was able to gasp, again and again, still squirting ejaculate from his cock over his fingers and onto the sheets.

As he was finally able to stand up and control his breathing again, he wiped his hand deliberately on the t-shirt.

John smiled. "Come to bed," he offered gently, and Sherlock climbed in beside John, fairly gracefully despite his evidently wobbly legs.

They lay in silence for some time, not touching, just looking at each other, until John pushed a stray dark curl back, tearing his index finger down the side of Sherlock's face, continuing down his throat, tracing his collarbone through the thin fabric of the shirt.

"I think the next time I fuck you, I'll push that rag in your mouth to gag you. Then I'll wipe you clean with it afterwards."

"This is evolving into a fetish, John Watson." Sherlock mumbled approvingly, his eyes fluttering shut in oblivious exhaustion. 

John's fingers tenderly stroked his clavicle before loosely curling around his neck.

"You know," he began but had to stop in order to choose his words carefully. "Well ... sometimes, you actually scare me."

"I know," Sherlock replied, already a bit adrift, face dreamily relaxed, eyes closed. "But you know what's way more unsettling? Sometimes I actually scare myself."


	27. The short answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only two replies to a love confession: most people would say _'I do'_ ; then, some would say _'I know'_.

Very much to Sherlock's dismay, it took John much longer than expected to fully recover. Judging by his own standards, Sherlock had estimated John regaining an acceptable level of operational readiness within 24 hours upon arriving back at Baker Street. Unfortunately, that calculation had been way too optimistic as well as disturbed by changing parameters. Apparently, it was absolutely not recommendable to drink half a bottle of Nero D'Avola combined with taking Metamizole while engaging in sexual relations with one's flatmate when you were over forty, concussed, dehydrated, hypothermic and recently severely traumatised with a history of prior PTSD on top of it.

Sherlock - being only 36, constantly on the brink of malnutrition, used to a degree of combined substance abuse that made John's alcohol-pain killer cocktail look like something he might consider for breakfast and prone to injuries to the point that a mere concussion or a few broken ribs were simply filed away as subsidiary side effects of his line of work and therefore negligible - couldn't quite fathom why the hell it took John days to get better. DAYS! Was he deliberately obtuse? Did he not realise that Sherlock needed him functioning instantly? Why wouldn't he get a move on? Couldn't he just ignore his by all means light incapacitation, perhaps by employing large doses of his very digestible analgesics?

Could it be that John Watson was testing Sherlock's patience? Well, that would prove a really bad idea.

As you can imagine, John's – obviously wilfully slow – healing process had Sherlock itching with impatience after 36 hours, up the walls with sexual frustration after 48, finally setting fire to the kitchen after 60 (it had just been his intention to char the bacon beyond recognition into smouldering chunks; it wasn't his fault that the frying pan caught fire after being rigorously heated for 20 minutes solid: the fat had started to burn, rapidly diffusing in an explosion, igniting first the kitchen cupboards before flames licked up the walls. Luckily, Sherlock a posteriori kept a fire extinguisher nearby, so John was able to douse the combustion before 221b burned to the ground, which wouldn't have threatened to happen in the first place _if he had been up to cooking his own sordid English breakfast by now_!)

“Sherlock, for god's sake! Are you insane? What's the fucking matter with you?” John yelled at him furiously, covered in foam and grime, wearing only a sogging dressing gown, fuming – no pun intended – for being woken by shrill squeaks emanating from their fire alarm, being forced to save their flat on an empty stomach at six o'clock in the morning.

“That there is no actual _fucking_ , because you refuse to get better!” Sherlock bellowed, exasperated, pissed off and a tiny bit triumphant that his actions eventually seemed to have shaken John out of his cosy convalescence comfort zone.

“What the hell are you talking about?” This was rapidly evolving into a very satisfying shouting match.

“I am loudly complaining about your total lack of effort to get better and thus be able to eventually fulfil a promise given to me upon your departure!”

“And you honestly think burning down our flat will coax me into bed with you?” John would have laughed if Sherlock's very own way of reasoning hadn't just resulted in a massive and imminent need for refurbishment.

“Well, it wasn't my intention to set it on fire. That just sort of...”

“...happened.” John finished, unable to hide his smile.

Sherlock just shrugged, looking very pleased with himself despite knowing that it was a bit not good.

“OK, you know what?” John dropped the extinguisher. “The flat has already been a mess before your little bonfire. Now I honestly doubt that it’s fit for human habitation any longer. I know you don't care if you live in squalor and you don't mind starving because the kitchen went up in flames...”

“Take-away is always an option.” Sherlock intersected. John lowered his head, viciously massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

“... but I can’t live like this.”

With that, John turned and stalked off towards the bedroom with as much dignity as he could muster in his soaking dressing gown.

It took Sherlock nearly a minute to understand properly what John had just said. When it sank in, he dashed after him, storming into their bedroom, only to discover John already stuffing his holdall.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock sounded incredulous.

"I'm packing."

"Why? What? Where? John!"

"Sorry, Sherlock, but at the moment, I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place and it doesn't suit me fine."

"But you can't... leave." He still couldn't believe it. "You are not ... well."

"Oh, you actually realised. I appreciate that." John retorted acidly.

Sherlock stood helpless while he watched John vigorously throwing clothes into his bag, his hands dangling awkwardly down by his sides, flexing, unflexing, unable to move or decide what to do next. He very much wanted to physically stop John but was aware that that might be an utterly futile decision he would regret for a long time.

"But where will you stay? Stamford's got little kids, Lestrade lives in a seedy bedsit after moving out and you can't stand your sister." Sherlock loathed the desperation audible in his voice.

John just snorted.

"Well, of course, you can try Sarah...?" Sherlock's stomach nearly turned as he pictured scenes of tender heterosexual domesticity.

For once, he was at a loss for words.

When all he needed was tucked away, John started to get dressed. His wet dressing gown went over the radiator. Only when he had buttoned up his shirt did he finally face Sherlock, arching an eyebrow.

"Well, won't you get some of your things? I very much doubt any cab will take you in your pyjamas. On the other hand, it's London on a Sunday morning, so they might have seen stranger things."

"Me?" 

"Yeah, you! Did you think I would let you stay behind to further vandalize our home? No chance! I honestly fear for the borough’s safety if you’ll be left to your own devices. I'll give you five minutes." With that, John went into the bathroom.

Sherlock stared after him, still dumbfounded. It needed John popping his head round the door, giving him an encouraging nod, to shock him into motion. He just grabbed various garments of which he very much hoped they might encompass shirts, trousers and jackets - preferably his, preferably matching - as well as pants and socks, putting everything in a duffle bag before changing out of his bottoms and t-shirt into a more decent attire.

John was already waiting by the stairs.

"Got your stuff?"

Sherlock nodded.

"If we meet Mrs. Hudson, you'll explain."

Sherlock nodded again.

"And you'll pay. For the cleaners, the cab and the hotel."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm sure Mycroft..."

"No!" John interrupted sharply, pointing a finger at him to emphasise his words. "You did the damage. You'll pay. I'm sure there is some trust fund or something. If not, you'll have to work a few boring but financially rewarding cases. Are we clear on that?" John glared.

Sherlock wavered. He silently checked his options: He could throw another tantrum. Or he could secretly reroute the payment, even behind his brother's back. But in the end, he decided to yield to John's arguments. For once, he would claim responsibility for his deeds. He was very sure that this might appeal to John. Which could pay off nicely.

"Yes." He growled somewhat disgruntled, trying to sound reluctant as he accepted his alleged defeat.

"Fine." John smiled tightly. "Now, do your magic and flag down a cab at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning in central London. And get us to a decent hotel."

"Any specific preferences?"

"In this case, I'm at your mercy, trusting your superior knowledge."

"Very well..." Sherlock smiled back at him. "I promise you won't regret it."

\------------------------------------------

John didn’t.

Upon entering their apartment at Fleming’s in Mayfair he inwardly congratulated himself for evicting both of them, only slapping himself metaphorically for not having done so earlier.  
Because, this was nice. Really nice.

On the left lay their bedroom, furnished with a lush double bed. Ahead he glimpsed a spacious bathroom, all grey slate and white marble. To the right stretched a dining and living area, leading to a small but fully equipped kitchen.

There even was an espresso machine!

John wondered briefly if he had accidently died in the fire; probably this was heaven?

Sherlock marched through towards the living room, carelessly throwing his bag onto the comfy looking sofa. The colour theme was blue-green, the wall-paper sporting ornaments that reminded John of the TARDIS interior.

John slowly strolled around, taking in the details: small elegant bouquets on the tables, subtly placed church candles in bulky glasses, a bowl of fresh fruit on the kitchen counter. The bathroom did not only provide fluffy bathrobes but also slippers. Of course, the suite came with complimentary Wi-Fi.

John felt a little bit overwhelmed by this tastefully down toned luxury while Sherlock seemed to take this level of comfort for grantedand was quite naturally seizing hold of his environment.

“OK?” He casually asked John, taking off his coat, dropping it on top of his luggage onto the couch.

John by now had reached the kitchen. The tiny fridge actually contained milk not yet expired – another big improvement regarding their provisions back at Baker Street – and the cupboard above the coffeemaker held an unopened packet of Italian espresso.

John experienced a warm tingle in his belly. This is what happiness must feel like, he thought, as he tried to get the fancy machine operating.

“What?” He replied to Sherlock’s question. “Well, yes, it’s very nice, indeed.” Then, after some futile fumbling with the heavily chromed gadget: “Sorry, but do you know how this bloody thing works? I could murder for a coffee.”

Sherlock came over, eyeing first John and then the device before, with some deft but experienced movements – pouring water into the tank, spooning coffee powder into the designated lid, then pressing some buttons – he started the brew. About 30 seconds later, John was presented with a steaming cup of milky espresso.

“Better?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah. This is lovely.” John sighed, for a moment forgetting being cross with Sherlock and just savouring his clean and tidy surroundings.

“Well, for 650 quid a night it should be, don’t you think?”

John nearly spurted his coffee onto the gleaming work top.

“Did you just say _650 quid a night_?”  
“Yes. What did you expect a place like this would come in central London? We are in a boutique hotel in Mayfair, not some faceless Novotel in Wapping. Did you know, by the way, that this was the actual prefiguration for Agatha Christie’s _‘Bertram’s Hotel’_? Most people think that it was _‘Brown’s Hotel’_ but they are, as usually, wrong.”

“650 quid a night?” John still couldn’t get over it.

“Your insistence to harp on about the bill is pedestrian _and_ mundane.” Sherlock admonished John before throwing a menu at him – discreetly omitting the dish’s prices – and ordering: “Get breakfast, that’ll cheer you up. Just toast for me.” With that, Sherlock turned around and headed for the bathroom to take an epic hot shower.

\--------------------------------------------------- 

When he emerged from a steamy bathroom some 20 minutes later John was already halfway through his food – croissants, bramble jam, Greek yoghurt, fresh strawberries, acacia honey – reading The Independent and looking much more content than the previous days, propped up against the fluffy pillows in the big double bed. 

Sherlock knelt down next to John, ignored his toast and nicked half a croissant, dipping it in honey before taking a bite, licking his sticky fingers afterwards. 

John watched him over his paper. “You actually look quite delicious. Delectable, even.” 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “You think so?” He asked. His voice had dropped a whole octave. 

“Yes.” With that, John leaned over and closed the distance between them, licking some honey from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock felt somethinf flutter in his stomach as his pupils went wide. He stared down at John, his lips only inches away. John smiled leeringly, meeting Sherlock’s heated gaze, before backing away, allowing some space between them. 

“I think now it’s my turn in the bathroom.” He declared smugly. 

Sherlock let out a breath he had been unconsciously holding before sniffing disappointedly, suddenly eyeing the breakfast tray with contempt, having lost his appetite – at least for solid food. 

“Sometimes I really hate you, you know!” He shouted after John. 

“No, you don’t!” Was the answer he got. 

\----------------------------------------------------------- 

After breakfast, a shower and a prolonged nap John actually felt human again. The bed was wonderful, not too soft, with Egyptian cotton sheets and at least six pillows in various shapes and sizes.  


Upon waking around midday and glimpsing no sign of Sherlock, John wondered where he might have ended up. _'Please, god, don't let him ruin this beautiful place with one of his ill-advised endeavours, i.e. boiling eggs in the microwave or peeling off the wall-paper to access the plaster for dating the period this building was constructed, presumably by licking at it.'_

John scrambled out of bed in just his pants, suddenly hastened by apocalyptic scenarios and the urgent need to prevent them, therefore not bothering to dress. He almost felt disappointed when he encountered Sherlock crouched in one of the big chairs in their living room, quite innocently occupying himself with a book while having a cup of tea. 

"You are... reading?" 

"I am impressed by your perception." Sherlock mumbled, not even looking up from the pages. 

"Um." John replied eloquently. 

“What?” Sherlock snapped, eventually lifting his gaze. He had one long leg thrown over the armrest where it dangled down, bobbing nervously against the upholstery. 

"Bed?" John suggested. 

The poor book hit the floor with a soft whump as Sherlock dropped it, nearly bouncing up from his lounging position, striding towards the bedroom while already shrugging off his jacket. By the time John caught up with him in the hallway he had started to unbutton his shirt. John tried to still his hands but Sherlock wriggled himself free, too impatient to go slow. 

"Sherlock..." 

"No! Do you have any idea...?" 

"Shh, love, calm down." With that, John pressed Sherlock against the wall, his hands wrapped around slim wrists, pinning them on either side of his head to keep him in place, kissing him eagerly and open mouthed while insistently pressing his knee between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock instantly started to hump himself against John's leg, responding very keen with hot and sloppy kisses, his tongue seeking John's even when their lips weren't meeting. 

"Oh, god..." he groaned as John smashed his whole body against him. "What did you say earlier about a rock and a hard place?" 

"Shut up." John moaned, biting his smooth jaw before licking down a wet stripe the side of Sherlock's neck, leaving him panting. 

"Fuck me." Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, his cheeks burning crimson. 

On that cue, John decidedly manhandled him towards the bed, pushing him down. 

"Off," he gestured, indicating Sherlock to get rid of his already crumpled and dishevelled clothes, a request Sherlock complied with rapidly and efficiently, tugging his shirt over his head while John pulled down his trousers. 

“Commando? That’s what I call optimistic.” John chuckled. 

“Couldn’t be bothered this morning.” 

Sherlock sat up, breathless, throwing his shirt over John’s shoulder before grabbing his face with both hands to kiss him passionately if a little uncoordinated while scooting back on the mattress right into the middle of the bed. 

There he got on his hands and knees while John pulled down his own pants, his cock already so hard he feared not lasting long enough. 

"Come on!" Sherlock growled, spreading his thighs, almost wiggling his raised bum in the air. 

"Where's the lube?" 

Silence. 

"Sherlock, where's the fucking _lube_?" 

"Didn't you take it?" 

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." John got clumsily off the bed and sprinted over to his bag, turning it upside down, carelessly tipping everything on the ground. 

"Buggery shitty fuck! Where the hell...?" He feverishly sorted through the contents of his luggage spilled out on the carpet. 

"John?" 

"Shut up!" 

_"John!"_

"What?" 

"Sod the fucking lube. Come over here and _fuck me_!" 

"Oh sweet Jesus..." 

John nearly jumped on the bed, spiting in his hand to slick himself up at least a bit before lining up. 

"Wait!" Sherlock stopped him. 

"Sherlock, now is not a good moment to get cold feet..." John hissed between gritted teeth, desperately trying not to come from the sight of Sherlock's exposed twitching hole, steadying his lover’s hips with a fierce grip. 

"No... just..." Sherlock swiftly climbed out of bed, all graceful long white limbs, diving down between John's scattered clothes, returning with an old grey garment he tossed against John's chest. 

"Remember? I'm sure I'll need it." 

"Oh god..." John groaned, bending Sherlock over, stuffing the filthy t-shirt defiled with come and blood into Sherlock's mouth with one hand while using his other to press his cock against Sherlock's sphincter before pushing in. 

Sherlock would have screamed in pain had he not been sufficiently silenced. Now his cries were muffled as John pounded into him without mercy, the burning ache drowning out all other thoughts. His fingers grabbed the headboard and held onto it for dear life. 

It only took a few hard thrusts fully hitting his prostate before Sherlock climaxed, grunting like a tortured animal deep in his throat, tears running down his face while shooting thick spurts of semen onto the sheets. 

John stilled momentarily, shivering, feeling Sherlock spasm and clench around him before he took up his ferocious pace again, fucking Sherlock's tight hole unrelentingly, pounding into him so hard that his hips smashing against Sherlock's arse made an obscenely squishing sound. Sherlock just whimpered; he was beyond caring until John finally came, positively howling, squirting deep inside him. 

He collapsed above Sherlock's sweaty back, lazily pressing open mouthed kisses between his protruding shoulder blades. By the time he was sure not to die immediately of hypoxia, feeling Sherlock still gasping beneath him, he pulled out with a lewdly sloppy sound, watching mesmerised as his come started to trickle out of Sherlock's arse. 

"Oh fuck..." John huffed, his breath wafting softly over Sherlock's sore anus, before he pressed his tongue flat against the clenching pink hole, licking, tasting his own release. He was so turned on that, when the dribbling stopped, he continued to suck greedily, finally pushing his tongue into the slick wet opening, desperately trying to slurp up every last drop of his own come. Meanwhile, Sherlock shuddered and trembled in front of him, still biting down on the by now slobbery wet shirt to prevent himself from wailing lecherously but somehow failing. 

John finally released Sherlock, pulling the soiled piece of cloth out of his mouth and replacing it with his tongue. Sherlock could taste his own musk mixed with John's semen. 

"God, you..." John roughly caressed Sherlock's face with stout fingers, ghosting kisses down his temple and cheeks. Sherlock just stared back at him, wide-eyed, feeling light-headed, even euphoric, before lowering his gaze, slightly tilting his head. 

“I’ll do anything. Anything you want me to. Just make me… please.” He urged in a hoarse whispering voice, begging to be ultimately taken apart with such a submissive attitude that John’s breath caught in his throat. 

Sherlock was his to bent and use. 

John pushed his slightly trembling left hand in the curls at Sherlock’s nape and reached down between them with his right, wiping it through the cool wet spot on the sheets, gathering up come before shoving his fingers into Sherlock's hot mouth to clean them with his tongue. Sherlock sucked with abandon, his eyes still cast down. 

"Come on, lick it up." John invited him, pressing Sherlock's face into the mattress where Sherlock voraciously started suckling on the soiled linen, slurping up his own ejaculate while John held him down, one hand entangled in Sherlock's dark hair, pulling hard, shoving his cheek right into the mess he'd made. Sherlock’s face was glistening wet with come and saliva and he was positively panting, not quite believing that he was doing this, allowed John to do this, even wanted John badly, _so badly_ , to do this to him. 

"God, I could watch you all night, you beautiful, filthy thing." John groaned, eventually dragging Sherlock up. His lips were red and swollen, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed. 

"Come on, clean me up with your mouth." John insisted, spreading his legs, pressing Sherlock's face to his groin where his mouth and tongue set to work brazenly, licking and sucking until John's eyes rolled back in his head and he had to pull his lover away, only to hold him tight and kiss him eagerly, biting down hard, tasting their mingled come and blood and musk, impossible to tell apart any longer, until they were both breathless and sedated, dizzy and rapturously giddy. 

"I'm utterly in love with you, Sherlock Holmes." John huffed, pressing their foreheads together. 

"I know." Sherlock breathed, shaking, his voice deep and rich and full of wanton passion he so seldom allowed himself to indulge in. “I know.” 


	28. How was it for you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short inerlude, in which the boys for once swap their accustomed roles - a little.

_You look good enough to eat but I've had a bellyful_  
_Do with me what you want but don't tell a soul_  
James - How was it for you

 

They order room service for dinner. Well, Sherlock orders room service; John still isn't quite over the ridiculous amount of money they are spending, muttering about that there is, in fact, a fully equipped kitchen and, as they are two grown-up man, they might actually cook something to limit their expenses.

At this, Sherlock just arches an eyebrow before pointing out that  
1.) he had already cooked something for John in the last week  
2.) that this was not to become a habit, otherwise spoiling the enjoyment fuelled by, if nothing else, than at least the rarity of the event and  
3.) that cooking would require shopping first and as much as Sherlock had enjoyed it the last time, the preliminary for leaving their suite on any endeavour would be putting some clothes on, as to which he simply can't be bothered.

So, it's room service again. They go for Chinese: crispy Wantans, spring rolls, fried noodles, duck chop soy. John makes sure that the page boy who brings up their food gets a good eye full of Sherlock, still naked and spread out in bed, the sheet barely covering his bum as he's lying on his belly, propped up on his elbows, starring at his laptop screen.

They eat in bed - again - and Sherlock, despite stating not being hungry, ends up nicking John's Wantans, the sauce is dripping down his chin, until John's leans in and licks it off.

This leads to some quite passionate snogging, until the plate of noodles, carefully balanced on one of the posh coffee table books leisurely strewn around the suite (no one actually _reads_ them, so John thinks he is putting this especially upscale looking copy on contemporary Chilean architecture - who knew this even existed - to good use by placing their food on it) nearly slip from its makeshift tray, threatening to spill on the sheets. There's only so much John will endure tempering the linen and soy sauce and frying fat are not on that list, so he pulls back to finish his dinner. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock steals some crispy duck - with chop sticks, of course, he' a show-off - while checking his email; at least that's what John supposes he's doing because the computer screen is angled away from him, so perhaps Sherlock is watching porn with the sound off, for all John knows. 

Food and sex seem to mix naturally with Sherlock.

When there are only a few pale noodles and some lonely pieces of vegetable floating around in sweet sour sauce left, John puts the cutlery on the serving cart next to the bed and leans back into the cushions piled up against the headboard.

Sherlock watches him from pale eyes, the thrills of the world wide web temporarily forgotten.

"So, anything interesting?" John enquires casually.

"What?" Sherlock obviously needs a few seconds to get what John's referring to. "No. Nothing in particular." His gaze does not waver.

"I know this look." John smiles.

"What look?" Sherlock sounds genuinely confused.

"This kind of toffee eyed smouldering come hither stare you are giving me right now from under your long lashes."

"I'm not...," Sherloc protests, sounding horrified, "... honestly, John, _toffee eyed_?"

"As I have no better word for it..."

"Well, that's your problem, then." Sherlock pouts but doesn't look away, a light flush creeping up his cheeks.

"OK..." Silence lingers between them as no one averts their eyes.

Sherlock's the first to fold.

"Is there... eh... any possibility for _dessert_?"

"Well, I had no idea that you of all people had a sweet tooth." John smirks. "Or is that a poor attempt on innuendo on your part?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Really, John..."

"What?" John leans over and in.

"Nothing..." Sherlock mumbles, before closing the distance between them, tenderly brushing his lips against John's. He tastes spicy, which is nice, as his lips part and Sherlock is allowed to lick into his mouth, moaning softly. Their tongues meet and Sherlock finally shuts his already half-closed eyes, loosing himself in wet and hot and _oh_... John's teeth pull decidedly at his bottom lip, sending a shiver down his spine.

Sherlock starts to crawl up John's body slowly, wreathing almost serpentlike, until he's covering him, balancing his weight on his forearms at either side of John's shoulders. He tentatively presses his groin down against John's but is not met with the hard boner he's expecting. Instead, John's cock is still soft, coiling lazily in his pants and Sherlock huffs in annoyance.

"What am I supposed to make of _this_ , John?" He asks accusatory, sulking at this obvious rejection.

"Well, as I am over forty..."

"Don't be ridiculous! You had sufficient food and fluids supplied to you, as well as a nap, so your refractory period should be met by now."

"... stuffed to bursting with greasy Chinese and already came once today - rather spectacular, if you care to remember - I don't find it that unusual that I am not totally and instantly overcome by the temptations your body offers."

"Oh, stuff it, will you."

"Make me."

Sherlock blinks down at him and then a malevolent grin spreads on his face as he understands what John's getting at.

"So," he murmurs, "you want _me_ to seduce _you_."

It's not really a question.

"Yeah, nice deduction, that."

Sherlock sits back, kneeling above John's thighs as he stares at the half naked man beneath him. He plucks at his bottom lip, kneading it between thumb and forefinger. The white sheet pools around his slender hips.

"So, any ideas...?" John starts hesitantly after minutes pass by without Sherlock moving.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock breaths.

"Then I think I would be amenable if you could bring yourself to put some of them into practice."

"Anything I want?"

"Well, yes, within reasonable bounds."

A wolfish grin spreads on Sherlock's face as he finally bows down, the tip of his tongue barely touching the delicate skin of John's belly just above his waistband, licking up to his navel. He dips his clever tongue in there, twirling, and John gasps, his hips twitching involuntarily.

Sherlock licks further up, pressing his tongue flat against John's sternum before his palms move up in the same direction, spreading over muscles and ribs, eventually settling over John's nipples.

Sherlock moves his hands in languid circles, pressing down hard as he gnaws at John's collarbone with lips and teeth until he feels John's nipples harden into two stiff pebbles. John arches up into his touch, his hands fisting the sheets. He's smiling erratically as Sherlock finally starts to lick and suck, suddenly biting down fiercely before resuming somewhat more tender administrations, the tip of his tongue encircling the delicate pink nubs.

John moans and writhes beneath him, a red flush spreading down his neck and chest. His fingers are entangled in Sherlock's hair now but he doesn't guide him, only holds onto him, caressing his scalp.

After a while, Sherlock's mouth moves south again, sucking hard at the side of John's ribcage, leaving a dark purple bruise. He lifts his endearingly dishevelled head to mumble: "Wanted to do that for quite some time." His eyes are dark, the pupils blown.  
"God, you...," John groans as Sherlock presses his lips to his skin again, nibbling down his side, over his stomach and then his fingers slip under John's waistband, pulling it down.

"Definitely interested by now," Sherlock states so matter-of-factly that John has to snort with laughter, which dies in his throat when Sherlock licks a wet stripe along his shaft from root to tip before sucking his balls into his mouth, twirling his tongue around, massaging the sensitive testicles.

"Jesus, please...," John moans and his hips push up as Sherlock's finger curl around him. Sherlock starts a lazy rhythm, pumping John's cock just enough to keep him interested but not nearly enough to shove him over the edge. It's a little rough and dry, as there is still no lube and they have to make do with precome and saliva but that somehow only adds to the slightly sedating pleasure John is experiencing.

When Sherlock eventually gets up, his lips are wet, dark pink and swollen and his cheeks flushed. After experimentally rubbing two fingers of his free left hand over John's spitslick perineum he dares to push further back, looking absolutely dazed.

"May I...?" Sherlock breathes, biting down on his bottom lip, his own hips rotating involuntarily between John's spread legs, his leaking cock sometimes brushing the insides of John's knees.

"Be my guest." John offers, spreading his thighs further as he stuffs one of the pillows from behind his back under his arse in one urgent and therefore slightly clumsy movement before grabbing the headboard for leverage.

Sherlock sucks two of his own fingers into his mouth, wetting them as best he can before rubbing them carefully and actually a bit shy over John's tight hole. As he feels the muscle give way he presses in just up to the first knuckles. John's body clenches while trying to adjust to the unfamiliar intrusion.

Sherlock still wanks him with his right hand, not speeding up but aligning the movements of both hands until it's a perfect push and pull. He can press easily into John up to his second knuckles now and the sight of John beneath him - flushed, oozing, gasping, eyes closed, his skin glistening with sweat - nearly gets him off just from watching.

Sherlock bows down and tastes all the places he had always wanted to: the delicate skin between hip and thigh, John's peaked nipples, his salty throat, his sweaty temple. He sucks one earlobe into his mouth and bites down, just to feel John arching his back beneath him, moaning his name low in his throat. Sherlock starts to bite at his neck next, drawing even more desperate noises from John.

"Say my name!" He growls against John's bobbing Adam's apple before licking over it, dipping his tongue into the sweaty hollow at the base of John's throat.

He can feel the words against his lips as they escape John's mouth: "Sherlock, please, love, just... a bit... _deeper_..."

"Like that?" Sherlock murmurs against John's heaving chest as he shoves his two fingers in as deep as possible, curling them upwards. John flexes his spine, unable to control his body until only his shoulders and buttocks are pressed against the mattress. He clenches his sphincter and Sherlock's fingers are trapped; he takes it as an invitation and brushes again and again over the sensitive spot inside John until his eyes roll back in his head.

"Fuck, Sherlock, faster, please..." John howls. Sherlock tightens his fist around John's cock and speeds up until his hand blurs and he feels hot sticky wetness between his fingers. John shouts his name until his voice cracks, raw and sobbing, panting for breath, his whole body twisting in pleasure.

Sherlock watches enthralled, savouring the sight of what he just did, slowly easing his fingers out of John's used hole. Then he wraps his come covered fingers around his own shamefully neglected erection and starts stroking. John comes back to life again as he watches Sherlock touching himself and suddenly sweaty fingers are closing over Sherlock's, moving with him. Sherlock starts to rock earnestly into the tight passage their two fists are forming. As John brushes his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock a few times, pressing down against the wet slit, Sherlock comes with a broken whine heaving from his chest, spilling yet more come over John's groin and belly.

He falls forward after that as if his strings have been cut, clinging to John with his arms tight around his torso, resting his head against his moist sternum.

"Breathe, love." John's voice seems to come from too far away. Sherlock tries to suck in some air, only to burst into tears, unable to hold them back, shaking and gasping against John's hot skin. John's arms come around him, stroking his quivering back, down his trembling arms, finally pushing his curls back, tugging his flushed face up.

"Sh, love, it's all right." John whispers, petting Sherlock's hair and finally, finally Sherlock can breath again, gulping in air scented heavily with their mingled perspirations, and as oxygen fills his lungs he eventually gets a grip on himself, abating into a dead calm.

"Thank you," he sighs, dazed and happy.

"You're welcome." John chuckles above him. "Come on, get up now, you sloppy hunk, I need a shower or we'll be glued together in no time." He downright shoves Sherlock away, wriggling out from underneath him before staggering on wobbly legs towards the bathroom while Sherlock looks bitterly disappointed. He flops bonelessly down between the luxuriously fluffy pillows, burying himself in downy mountains of expensive bedding.

John takes his time in the shower, relishing the tepid water streaming down his body, loosening his strained muscles. 

When he steps out of the cubicle to dry off, he is surprised to find Sherlock lingering against the sink, clad very obviously only in his pyjama bottoms.

"Thought you passed out. Give me a towel, please."

Sherlock hands him a soft grey blanket the size and weight of the Bayeux tapestry and John wraps himself up in all its glorious fluffiness before starting to rub the droplets off his body, leaving his skin warm and rosy. Sherlock still just watches him, without saying a single word.

"What is it, then?" John finally feels obliged to enquire. Sherlock crosses his slim ankles and looks down at his long bony feet before quietly asking: "So, was it... any good?" His nose and forehead are wrinkled as he looks up to meet Johns eyes.

John cocks his head a bit to the left. He smiles fondly.

"Well, what do you think?" Witnessing Sherlock insecure and doubting himself is actually something that does not occur all too often in John's life, so he might be excused for prolonging said state by asking plainly obnoxious questions and behaving a little bit dim.

"We usually don't do it this way round, so I'm not sure... you know... how it was ... well... _for you_...?" He trails off, not quite bringing himself to ask John his decided opinion on his performance in bed but equally unable to let the matter rest, being the curious and rather vain brat John so desperately loves.

"Em, let me see. I came shouting your name, when I'm not mistaken. That's usually a pretty decent sign for really good shagging. Besides, you actually gave me a hickey. I rather liked that. It's... _sweet_."

Sherlock cringes, looking nearly sick.

"Are you mocking me?" He asks, sounding adorably put out.

John takes pity on him: "Yes, Sherlock, I'm mocking you just a little bit, for when you cannot tell if I liked to be brought off by your adept hand while you had two fingers up my arse, you are actually a daft idiot and you know how much I enjoy calling you that but how seldom I have the chance."

"So, it was... _OK_... then?" Sherlock still sounds incredulous.

"Yes, it was very, very OK in capital letters." John murmurs against his temple as he hugs Sherlock tight, fingers brushing through his hair before resting at the nape of his neck.

"You dropped the towel," Sherlock remarks rather tartly and John laughs. "Sod the fucking towel!" 

And then they kiss until Sherlock feels reassured again and John's neck hurts from the awkward angle he holds his body to give his sometimes so utterly stupid lover exactly what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "toffee eye" trope is reminiscence of verityburns marvellous story "The Road Less Travelled". If you haven't read it, do so now! She's a real poet and an exceptional writer, while I'm but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more...


	29. Accident Waiting to Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags! This chapter might actually be a little bit upsetting. Don't be fooled by the innocent beginning, this ends in heartbreak, pain and tears.

John spends the next morning on the phone, fruitlessly trying to charter a builder and cleaner on short notice. He wants to go home as soon as possible but it turns out that it's not particularly easy to hire competent workmen - or women - in London these days. There are, of course, some willing to take on the task but either do they charge a fairly ridiculous amount of money, are lacking any qualifications, or, in fact, both. At length, John contacts friends and acquaintances who had recently some refurbishments done but either the handymen they recommend were quite able and are therefore booked for months in advance, or were utter shite and so not to be recommended at all. 

John grows more and more desperate, even asking Sherlock if he knows of any good and able craftsmen. 

"Well, as Mr. Oldacre is indisposed at the moment, I can't think of anybody." He turns his attention back to The Times.

"If you wouldn't read such a posh paper but something useful... like... an advertiser, or Metro, I'm sure I would have found someone by now!" John hisses back at him before dialling another random number from the Yellow Pages only to get another negative answer.

Finally Lestrade offers him a number where he might reach one Pavel, who did wonders when renovating Mrs. Lestrade's house after her husband moved out, and thank god at a reasonable price as well. John is also instructed not to ask too many question.

When he tracks Pavel down, it sounds as if he's at his local boozer, for the background noise as well as Pavel's heavy accent make the conversation quite difficult.

"Hello... hello? Pavel?... I got your number from Greg... Sorry?... No, GREG... Yeah, poor bugger... No!... What, sorry?... Yeah, a job... at Baker Street... BAKER STREET... B A K E R... Jesus, where are you? ... No, no offence..."

Sherlock can't take it anymore and finally snatches the mobile from John, shouting down the line: "Mamy dla ciebie zadanie. Remont kuchni i ogólnie rozliczeń. Baker Street, tak szybko jak to możliwe. Płacimy 1000 funtów w gotówce, bez pytania. Zgodził?... Osiedlił! Dziękuję. Do zobaczenia jutro." He ends the call and hands the phone back to John, who stares at him in astonishment. "You speak Polish?"

"Yes, among other Slavic languages, I can converse in Polish." He sounds as if this could be expected from any somewhat educated person. "Also, I have to admit, the pronunciation is a little bit tricky."

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that. What did you arrange?"

"He'll come over tomorrow and do the job for a thousand quid cash."

"That sounds a bit dodgy, don't you think?" John asks dubious.

"Well, if you want to look for someone else...?" Sherlock lifts his bony shoulders and arches a questioning eyebrow. "No? Then I suggest you let Pavel do his job. I mean, Lestrade recommended him. A police officer hiring him should put your utterly middle class guilty conscious at rest, don't you think?"

John defensively crosses his arms in front of his chest but stops arguing. Instead he asks after a while: "So, where do you expect to raise a thousand pounds? Not to mention the at least two grand this cosy little place will come?"

"What's the point in having a credit card if you cannot claim credit now and then?"

"Yeah, but you are aware that you have to pay the money back, eventually, aren't you, Sherlock?"

"Don't be daft, John, I survived without you in this world for over thirty years, so I know how this works." Then, after some moments, he continues rather mysteriously: "I have a plan."

"Handing Pavel over to Inland Revenue? Accusing the hotel of food poisoning, or threatening to point out cocaine stains in the toilet to the tabloid press?"

"You are quite a malevolent piece of work, John. Am I finally rubbing off on you?" Sherlock sounds genuinely pleased and quite affectionate.

"Maybe." John smirks.

Sherlock smiles warmly back at him: "No, seriously, that would be rather a bit not good, don't you think. Pavel's from a little village near Kraków, judging by his accent. He has to support not only his elderly parents over there but also his wife and five children. Do you know the costs of living in Poland doubled in the last two years? I honestly think the money's not wasted on him."

"So, this is some kind of private development aid on your part?"

"Well, if putting it like that makes you feel better about it, I'm not the one to argue."

„But he wants cash, not some plastic card.”

„I am aware of this, John.” Sherlock sounds exasperated for having to argue about something as mundane as money over and over again. „As I said before, I have a plan. Trust me.”

Now John really starts to worry.

\----------------------------------

In the end Pavel proves heaven send. He's not only on time, adept and willing, he also repairs their funny boiler as well as changes the locks - so Mycroft will have to knock at least the next time he calls – and on top of this fixes Mrs Hudson's leaking washing machine. Afterwards, his "cousin" tidies and cleans the mess sensibly, only throwing out stuff totally broken or stained beyond rescue, putting everything else in crates for Sherlock to sort through. 

They move back to Baker Street on Thursday. John has to hold his breath only once as Sherlock hands over his card to the hotel's receptionist but it's accepted without questions or problems, so they check out after breakfast and are home way before noon.

Pavel and his crew have worked a true miracle. Everything is neat and prim, the kitchen smelling faintly of fresh paint and nothing else. Even Mrs Hudson is full of praise. John looks around in awe, before carefully putting the kettle on and retiring to his chair.

Sherlock hangs his coat in the hallway, then starts to peer into the boxes containing the accumulated clutter of 221b. John brings him a cuppa now and then as he litters the flat with his bric-a-brac. John gets back to read a boring but highly praised crime novel ( _„Honestly John? Lesbian murder in the 1920s? How deep can one sink?” „Shut up, Sherlock. My sister recommended it.” „Now, that's of course a voice of reason not to be argued with.”_ \- at which John propels the book in his direction). As the shadows start to fall in their flat, he turns on the TV to watch some news before switching over to _Emmerdale_ , at which Sherlock makes retching noises and repeatedly blocks John's view of the telly under the pretence of putting stuff onto the shelves above it.

„Sherlock, I'd rather like to watch that!”

„No, you don't.”

"Yes, I do!”

„ _Why_?” Sherlock nearly whines. „This is… so… utterly… silly… I… I… You'll start bleeding from your eyes, and your brain will be transformed into jelly! John, please...”

„Sherlock, it's Thursday, so there will actually be _two_ episodes tonight.” John chirps, then settles back in his chair, deeply content.

„Please, for the love of god!”

With this rather dramatic exclamation Sherlock retires to his room, taking a box containing skeletons of small mammals with him; so he can keep himself entertained.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some two hours later Sherlock emerges again, drawn to the kitchen by delicious smells emanating from quite a few take-away containers on the table (John went out to grab some dinner after his program had ended. He knows it's a luxury to dine out yet agai, but as no one had gone shopping earlier their lovely clean kitchen is totally lacking any supplies. At least it stays pristine this way.)

As Sherlock starts to poke around in the boxes with his fingers, John feels the urge to castigate him about basic hygiene principles, even slapping his wrist as he just rolls his eyes when John demands washing one's hands _after_ handling bones and _before_ touching food.

“And if you use the word mundane again on me tonight, I will sleep in my old room for the time being! Did I make myself clear?”

“Quite.” Sherlock huffs, before taking himself off to the bathroom.

They finally end up crouched around their kitchen table, indulging in some kind of Thai binge eating.

“I'm still wondering how you paid Pavel. Where did you get the money from?”

“I went on the game again. That hotel was full of rich old poofs who would pay almost any amount to fondle my balls.” Sherlock deadpans, at which John nearly chokes on his fried noodles. He coughs and needs some water before he's able to speak again. “Sherlock, for fuck's sake...”

“Just kidding.” Sherlock smiles innocently, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. “But can't you guess? I thought even you would have figured it out by now...”

“Figured out what?”

“Think, John! Don't you recognise something's amiss?”

John goes over their flat slowly in his mind. It's rather difficult to tell, for he's never quite sure what Sherlock is keeping around and now, with everything packed up, it's even harder to know.

“What's missing, John?” Sherlock nearly pleads, openly gaping at the sight of his flatmate's cluelessness.

Finally it dawns on John.

“Your violin!” He exclaims. “But, Sherlock, what have you done with it. Have you sold it?” John's incredulous. Sherlock loves his instrument. He'd never voluntarily part with it.

“Of course not.”

John exhales in relief.

“I pawned it.”

John has to cough yet again.

“You did what?” He nearly squeals.

“I _pawned_ it. I'll redeem it when I have the money.”

“You pawned it.” John shakes his head in disbelief. “You actually pawned it.”

“This repetition thing of yours is getting rather tiresome.”

Did people actually still take stuff to pawn shops? But instead John asks: “Couldn't you have asked… someone… to lend you the money?”

“And whom should I have turned to, what'd you reckon? Lestrade, who's always nearly broke due to the huge amount of alimony he owes his wife? Molly, who had to take in a boring flatmate to share the rent – no offence!? Stamford, who has small kids and a large mortgage? And please don't even mention my brother. Besides, you said I should pay for the damage myself. Which I did.”

John's speechless. He simply cannot believe the length to which Sherlock – selfish, self-obsessed, self-centred Sherlock – went to make it up to him. He feels a lump in his throat and takes another sip of water before asking as casually as possible: “So, how do you suppose to raise the money to buy it back, hm?”

“Oh, I'm sure something will come up. As you said before, I'll take a dull but profitable case.” He sounds detached and only mildly doubtful.

John's rather touched by the whole business and feels obliged to extol Sherlock's gesture, so he points out the various improvements of the new furnishings, at which Sherlock grunts – at best – or says nothing at all. As John raves on, even praising the colour of their walls as some _shade of subtle champagne_ Sherlock can't take it anymore and throws a dumpling dipped in coriander sauce at him just to shut him up ( _“It's just sodding beige, John!”_ ) but misses, so the bite hits the freshly painted wall instead with a smacking sound before dropping to the floor, leaving a greasy stain behind. 

John looks appalled and turns his head back and forth between the unmissable blotch and Sherlock, who desperately tries to repress a giggling fit – failing miserably – as John's face colours a dark purple while Sherlock is actually sniggering: “Your face! Sorry, but is that a _radiant mauve_ or a _rich raspberry_?” Sherlock snorts with laughter, pressing his fist against his mouth to refrain from bursting.

“You fucking git!” John throws his cutlery down onto the table and breathes through his nose to calm himself down. Opposite, Sherlock nearly folds himself in half, unable to stop laughing, tears streaming down his face, until suddenly his head is yanked back hard by his hair, straining his neck.

“I actually like it when it's clean and tidy, you little piece of shit.” John hisses in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock freezes. It's suddenly very quiet in their kitchen.

“You are such a poncey snob, sweetie, aren't you?” As Sherlock doesn't answer, John pulls his hair even harder. “Aren't you?” He steps around and in front of Sherlock from behind his back, now facing him, standing between his spread thighs, still holding his head in an iron grip. “I want you to answer me!”

“Yes, John.” It comes out strained and slightly choked.

No one's laughing anymore.

“So I think I have to teach you a lessons, something about respect for other people's work and the value thereof, hm?”

Sherlock's eyes go wide and dark. “John...” He can't finish, for John smacks his cheek hard with his free hand.

“You arrogant little public school boys know how this is done, don't you?”

There's nearly a minute of silence before Sherlock answers: “Yes, John.” He's wavering on the brink of sobbing but bravely faces John, his left cheek burning with the imprint of John's fingers.

“Then show me, for I just went to a _mundane and pedestrian_ comprehensive.”

John releases Sherlock, who gets up slowly on shaky legs. John watches with his hands clasped behind his back as Sherlock opens his belt buckle, pulls it out of its loops and puts it on the table. Then he undoes his button and zip, pulling his trousers and pants down to his knees before bracing himself against the counter with his elbows folded, his head dangling down but pressed with its back right under the ledge of the worktop. He inhales deeply as John pushes up his shirt tails to fully expose his naked arse.

“What's normally used for this? A bamboo cane?”

“Yes, John.”

“Sorry, but we don't have one – at least not yet. If you carry on like this, however, I genuinely contemplate buying one for bending you over the table every Sunday evening to punish you for misbehaving with a good thrashing.” John kneads Sherlock's buttocks with both hands.

“Oh, god.”

“You won't be able to sit for at least one day afterwards.” John pinches one of Sherlock's arsecheeks hard and he flinches, sucking in his breath, choking on a sob.

“Stop snivelling! Mere five minutes ago you were howling with laughter. Well, you are about to find out that sometimes when you laugh too much, it's gonna make you cry.”

“Please, John...”

“The hard way.”

“No, John, please!”

“When I'm finished with you brat, you'll have pretty good reason to cry. So shut up and stop weeping like some sissy now and save your breath and tears for later. Stay put!”

John goes over to their desk in the living room and rummages through the drawers until he finds what he's been looking for: a thin, wooden but slightly flexible 12 inch ruler.

“This'll add nicely to the school boy fantasy, don't you think?” 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock whispers.

“Enlighten me, are you obliged to count out loud?”

“Yes, John.”

“Then I want to hear you loud and clear. I'll give you thirty for a start.”

_Smack!_

“One.”

_Smack!_

“Two.”

_Smack!_

“Three.”

At first, it's just a slightly stinging feeling, not actually unbearable. But when Sherlock reaches ten, his buttocks are raw and burning and, as the ruler hits sore flesh again and again, the ache intensifies. Sherlock presses the back of his head firmly against the sharp edge of the worktop and tries to regulate his breathing, inhaling between strokes, exhaling with counting.

“E...eleven.”

_Smack!_

“Tweeeelve.”

_Smack!_

“Thir...teen.”

“I said loud and clear. No stammering or slurring, or we'll start all over again.”

_Smack!_

“Fourteen!!!” Sherlock screams by now, his breathing ragged.

When they reach twenty-three his backside is red and swollen. It feels hot and the sharp pain of every strike sears through his whole body, turning him into a shaking mess. He's sobbing openly by now, unable to control his body any longer. Snotty tears run down his contorted face.

_Smack!_

“TWENTYFOUR!”

_Smack!_

“TWENTYFIVE!!!”

When they reach thirty, Sherlock's ass is turning purple. John kneads it deftly with strong fingers and Sherlock's knees buckle but he keeps standing in his bend position for all it's worth. The knuckles on his shaky hands have turned white as he vigorously holds on to the counter.

“Now, what did you say earlier about _radiant mauve or rich raspberry_? I'd call this fucking dark crimson.” John sneers as he massages the fiercly red welts on Sherlock's arse.

“Please, John...” Sherlock huffs.

“Shh, are you hoping we're done here?”

“Please, I got it. I won't make a mess in our kitchen again, I promise!” Sherlock sputters, humiliated and hurt. “I… I wont throw food at you again, either.”

“That sounds good!” John acknowledges but his voice is cold. “I'll just give you twenty extra with your belt, to make sure it really sinks in.”

“No, please, John, I can't...!” Sherlock is begging now.

“I'll make it thirty if don't shut it right now.” 

Sherlock whines low in his throat, sounding broken and a little lost but he stays bent down, holding onto the counter for dear life.

“You don't have to count but you shouldn't scream the place down either. I'm sure you don't want Mrs Hudson seeing you like this, with your pretty arse in the air, getting a sound flogging like the naughty boy you are.”

So Sherlock presses his lips together tightly as the belt hits his abused body. After the first five strokes he has to raise his head and bite down on his arms to muffle his cries. The world starts to blur before his eyes, so he closes them, focussing on breathing only. He's lost count and so does not know how many blows there are still to be expected. He tastes blood but only bites down harder on his arms as not to alert their landlady or the neighbours. The sheer indignity of being encountered like this by anybody mortifies him nearly as much as the anticipation of yet another painful smack.

Suddenly, it's over. John has stopped hitting him. The sleeves of his shirt are wet with tears, snot and blood, for he has bitten himself. His head is spinning due to lack of oxygen; he must have forgotten to breath in the final stages of his punishment. The back of his skull hurts where it had been pressed against the ridge of the worktop. His hair drips with sweat.

“Get up.” John orders sternly and Sherlock tries, he really tries, as his vision starts to shrink and darkness encloses him before everything goes black and his legs finally give out.

He comes crouched on the kitchen floor. His head's still spinning but the pain in his abused backside is too much, so he gets up on his knees, only to topple over. Luckily, he is able to brace himself with his hands against the floor, otherwise he would have landed face down in his own sick as he suddenly has to throw up, decorating their previously shiny linoleum with barely digested Thai food. He desperately struggles to force the bile down again, pressing the back of one hand against his mouth - as he can't imagine what John will do to him for defiling their kitchen like this - but to no avail. He vomits another gush of puke all over his hands, by now kneeling in a puddle of sour smelling slime. It drenches his pulled down trousers; gooey saliva drips down his chin.

Sherlock's chest heaves as he sucks in gulps of air; his back cramps while he's sobbing uncontrollably, gasping between retches as he desperately tries to get up, nearly slipping in his pool of sick: “I'm sorry, John… I am so sorry. I'll clean… I'll clean it up, I promise… please… please… don't… please, I'll be good… I'll be so good, I promise.” Sherlock's whole body is jittery and convulsing, cold sweat dripping from his brow.

John squats down beside him and one of his arms comes around Sherlock's ribcage, holding him upright and preventing him from gliding down into the disgusting mess on the floor. His other hand soothes Sherlock, stroking back his damp hair from his forehead, then moving down his back, until the vomiting stops and Sherlock's breathing returns to something resembling normal.

"Hush, love. It's all right. It's all right. It's over. I wont punish you for this, not tonight. Do you hear me? You've been so good. Don't worry.”

Sherlock nods weakly.

John finally helps him to stand up and hands him a glass of water that Sherlock sips slowly, rinsing his mouth with it before spitting into the kitchen sink.

  


“Clean yourself up a bit.” John's voice is quiet but determined. “Then you'll scrub the kitchen.” John makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses not only the puke and the dumpling, but also the table with the by now cold leftovers. “I think after that, you'll need a shower. Do not come to my bed afterwards! I want you to think really hard why you force me again and again to do this to you. It's getting out of hand and that's entirely your fault. So you'll sit on this chair tonight with your raw posh arse and contemplate in earnest how to behave properly. Are we understood?” With that, John pulls one of the hard wooden chairs from under the table and indicates this piece of furniture as Sherlock's resting place for the night.

“Yes, John.”

John nods firmly once, then looks back at Sherlock with a somewhat hardened as well as disappointed expression on his face. “I think you forgot something, don't you.”

Sherlock has been staring down at the floor but now slowly raises his head to meet John's gaze. His face is very pale, his cheeks hollow beneath his prominent cheekbones but his eyes are burning, dark red-rimmed holes. He blinks once, then wipes one shaking hand over his face and steadies himself.

“Thank you, John.” He finally murmurs nearly inaudible.

John just nods again before turning around and marching towards the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock stares after him for a full minute, then looks around their kitchen. The smell of sick mixed with greasy Thai nearly makes him nauseous again. After pulling up his stained trousers he gets to work as quickly as possible in his condition and starts mopping up the floor. It's not pleasant but he's done worse.

He very shortly ponders putting the leftovers of their dinner into the fridge but in the end he just bins everything; he doubts that one of them will have appetite for Thai in the foreseeable future.

When he's finished, he definitely is in desperate need of a shower. Sadly he can't turn the water to the scathing temperature he prefers, because the hot water burns hellish when hitting his aching flesh. Instead he has to take a cold shower. The sensation of the icy water at least gets him fully concious again. Afterwards, he avoids looking at his reflection in the mirror as he dries off and carefully slips into his soft silk dressing gown.

When he steps back into the kitchen, he is suddenly overwhelmed with pure dark rage as he glares at the chair John's intended for him. 

There has been no gratification for him in this latest encounter; neither did he achieve the bright white buzzing blankness he sometimes experiences under extreme pain, nor had there been some good shagging, leaving him at least relaxed and satisfied and calm.

This has just been… degrading. This ha just been about disciplining him, punishing him for the _way he was_.

And that triggers some very ugly memories.

Other people have tried to change him, people more skilled or appropriately concerned than John in this matter. Sherlock has defied them all. It had been very tough sometimes but in the end Sherlock has overcome both emotional deprivation as well as corporal punishment; he has sworn to never endure either again.

If this is what John means when he says he loves him, he could keep his sentiment! John did perfectly well know what he signed up for, so he has no right to alter the parameters if they suddenly doesn't suit him anymore.

Sherlock resolutely pushes the chair back under the table and wanders over into his living room. He comes to stand at the window and retrievs his mobile form the desk, checking his inbox. He needs a case. He has to rustle up some money. He has things to do. He has to _WORK_.


	30. The Tranquility of Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A separation is called for. Sherlock goes up to Manchester - so much to answer for...

Two lovers kissing masks a scream of midnight  
Two lovers missing the tranquility of solitude  
Getting a cab and travelling on buses  
Reading the grafitti about slashed-seat affairs  
_**The Jam - That's Entertainment**_

 

Only when the train finally pulled out of the station did Sherlock take time to relax a fraction and allowed himself to think about what he had happened over the past few hours.

His recently shamefully neglected inbox had been bursting. As he had scrolled through the messages in the early hours, he had been trying to access which one would proof financially rewarding, for once entirely ignoring their intellectual stimulus. Rather thrilling but somehow obscure requests ( _“Mr. Holmes, my new lodger never leaves his room, but demands daily delivery of The Mirror, cutting letters from it to piece together messages. I believe he's Italian. What should I do?”_ ) were dismissed, in favour of inquiries by people with evocative surnames and prestigious addresses – preferably in the country.

Sherlock took on the first case that met his capitalistic criteria: _“Dear Mr. Holmes, my wife has recently become rather frightened after encountering strange graffiti in the vicinity of our home. She won't leave her room anymore and urged me to take her on a prolonged holiday. I'm very concerned and beg you to give this matter some consideration. Yours faithfully Hilton Cubitt, Esq.”_ Attached was a thumbnail of some kind of mural reminding Sherlock vaguely of paintings by Keith Haring he’d once been forced to admire on a school trip to the Tate Gallery.

Mr. Cubitt resided in Manchester but not in Moss Side, where sprayed tags belonged to the universally understood code of communication and territorial behaviour of the local tracksuit muggers; he lived in leafy Didsbury, where this kind of street art was regarded as vandalism and therefore considered offensive.

Sherlock had quickly typed a reply, announcing his arrival up north for midday next.

Luckily, he hadn't bothered unpacking, so his dufflebag still rested unopened in his chair. He had put on the least worn and crinkled trousers and shirt before wrapping himself in his Belstaff and shouldering his holdall. Afterwards he had silently left the flat.

As it had been in the middle of the night the streets were deserted and the chances of a cab slim. But the cool air of dead dark London had felt like a relief after the claustrophobic atmosphere of 221b, so Sherlock had decided to walk all the way to Kings Cross / St. Pancras, bypassing the odd drunk couple leaning against each other on their way home, a brightly lit Kebab shop open 24/7 (who's tired staff amused themselves with watching American Wrestling on a big flat screen over the counter) and an old and obviously homeless woman, huddled up in a doorway, resting her cheek on a few grimy plastic bags holding everything she possessed.

_At least one of the drunks goes home with his best mate's girlfriend after ditching his own company, which earned him a drink spilled in his face (ex-girlfriend) and a punch (ex-best mate); one of the employees of the Kebab shop is Kurdish, while his colleague is Turkish, which fuelled an argument earlier; the Kurd will give his notice in a few days, because he feels bullied and discriminated (probably righteous, though); the grey haired woman was once a barmaid and is probably way younger than she appears but has taken to drink, lost her job, lost her flat and now drags the remains of her life around in a few carrier bags, stuffed with old papers (significant to her), moth eaten dirty rags and a picture of her long estranged only son, living in New Zeeland._

Sherlock had taken all these impressions and information in, concentrating on them as some kind of deflection, rigorously avoiding contemplating the events of the evening and the subject of John in particular.  
He had decided to _leave_ and to _work_ , so that's what he would _do_!

After arriving at the station he had bought himself a ticket (first class, needs must) and a very sweet Latte and had passed the time wandering through the almost empty halls while the first shops had slowly opened, rattling up their shutters. As the first still tired commuters had begun treading along the beaten tracks towards their workplaces, almost as if remote-controlled, it had eventually been time to board his train.

Thankfully, he had his compartment to himself. After carefully lowering himself, he had plugged in his earphones and had drowned out every commotion around and inside him with the _“Götterdämmerung”_ , listening to the three Norns lamenting as they gathered around Brünhilde's rock, weaving the rope of destiny while singing of the past, present, and future. He had closed his eyes and leaned his head back as the magnificent music had washed over him: _“Aus Not und Neid ragt mir des Niblungen Ring: ein rächender Fluch nagt meiner Fäden Geflecht. Zu End’ ewiges Wissen! Der Welt melden Weise nichts mehr.”_

How blissfully peaceful his life could be if this had been true.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock arrived at Manchester Piccadilly around a quarter to eleven. He had not really slept on the train, only drifted in and out of a catnap, due to his still fiercely aching backside and a highly motivated conductor, who had felt obliged to ask for Sherlock's ticket at least three times, although he had been one of only a hand full of first class passengers. It had bordered on harassment.

Therefore Sherlock was positively knackered upon his arrival and longed for a hot shower and a change of clothes. So he went down Piccadilly, leading onto Market Street (walking by the new Arndale Centre and once again thanking the IRA for their brave approach at town planning in the mid-nineties that had got Manchester rid of the most ugly public lavatory disguised as a shopping centre the world had ever seen), entering Burberry's - ducked discretely away in a narrow passage off Exchange Street - with a confident nod, leaving the shop some fifteen minutes later with a new charcoal suit, a burgundy shirt and a set of matching socks and underwear, only to retrace his way back to the station, booking himself into a nice single room at Malmaison.

After showering, shaving and changing into his fresh suit Sherlock felt confident and capable to meet his new client.

A cab took him to Didsbury, the cabbie swearing constantly at every other driver he encountered ( _“Get off and milk it, ye twat! - Aye, yer a dead mither, scally! - Oi, anging wing-nut! - Effing jitty!”_ ). This arduous display of Mancunian dialect had Sherlock squirming in the back seat, praying to a god he did not believe in for striking his driver with muteness, or at least hammering some respect for the sentience of his passengers into him.

As Sherlock stepped out of the car in front of a big red-bricked villa set in a spacious garden sporting large old chestnut trees, he felt assured that he had at least chosen the right case considering his financial demands. He did not deign the cabbie with a tip, which earned him another bollocking that he chose to cut off by slamming the door shut in the drivers face.

Sherlock opened the white wooden gate and went up towards the house. After banging a brass knocker (!), the door was opened by a sturdy middle aged man at least in his fifties. Sherlock took in his appearance – retired stockbroker, made his money in the 80ties in the City, then went back up north to live off his shares in his home town; sentimental, nostalgic, conservative, Thatcherite, not too bright, prosaic. Sherlock took an instant dislike to him.

“Mr. Cubitt, I'm Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thanks for coming all the way up here, Mr. Holmes. I was rather surprised when you announced your visit. I'd have come down to London, you know.”

“Yes, well, but as I considered your case urgent, I'd rather not waste any more time.” Sherlock sounded grave.

“Good god, please come in.” Cubitt ushered Sherlock into his house, obviously shaken by the detective's earnest demeanour and foreboding remark.

“Thank you. Now, is your wife in?”

“Elsie? Well, yes, but… she's in a difficult state. As I told you, she won't leave her...”

“Yes, but I have to talk to her straight away.” Sherlock interrupted briskly, pushing past Cubitt and climbing the stairs. “Is she up here?”

“Third door to the right but I'm not sure...”

“Well, I am. Thank you, Mr. Cubitt.” With that, Sherlock marched up the steps but turned around on the first landing. “By the way, I charge 500 pounds a day, plus expanses.”

“Of course...” Cubitt sounded bewildered.

“Good. Fine. I'll...” With that, Sherlock gestured vaguely up the first flight, before further ascending and thereby slipping form Mr. Cubitt's view.

Mrs. Elsie Cubitt proofed to be a slightly neurotic but quite beautiful young American woman with dark hair, shining eyes and a smile as broad as her accent. She wrung her hands dramatically and seemed very agitated as she told Sherlock about various inscriptions she had seen around the neighbourhood and the garden, one even smeared at their front door. She had taken pictures of them with her phone, showing them to Sherlock, nervously watching him as he took a long look at the strange little man jumping up and down, checking something on his phone from time to time.

Finally, Sherlock turned to the by now nearly hysteric woman: “Luckily, your first name consists of the most common letters of the English language, Mrs. Cubitt. Your rather unimaginative christening just saved me the trouble of dealing with this extremely common and very dull case of adultery. Your ex-boyfriend from the states seems quite unhappy regarding your matrimonial betrothal and, from the messages he did send you, his rage appears to be exaggerating, as you well know, for I'm sure you are quite able to read this code.”

Mrs. Cubitt paled: “Please, Mr. Holmes, don't tell my husband. He's very… old-fashioned and rather fastidious in his views. He wouldn't approve...” Her eyelashes fluttered.

“Well, you carrying on is none of my business but I sternly advise you to get rid of one or the other, for those shenanigans never come to any good.”

“Jesus, you are a real English prude, aren't you?” Mrs. Cubitt exclaimed, dropping her nervy expression. Sherlock did not answer, just fixed her with a gaze he normally reserved for Calliphoridea feasting on the less interesting specimen of decomposing bodies.

“How much for your silence?” The by now utterly calm woman enquired business-like.

Sherlock was tempted to ask for further 500 pounds but was suddenly disgusted by the whole matter. Base cheating! There was no suspense, no mystery in this. Where was the challenge to his intellect, giving him the satisfaction of having solved a rather opaque riddle? These were just some rich folks playing sad games with each other, taking advantage.

But would he be any better if he took their money?

He just shook his head and left Mrs. Cubitt without another word. While the woman calculatingly watched his descen,t a mischievous look hardened her pretty features.

Down in the hall, Mr. Cubitt was pacing impatiently.

“I'm sorry. There's nothing to be done. It was all some kind of prank, I'm sure.” Sherlock mumbled flatly, leaving his startled client behind. He just wanted to get away from this mendacious lot.

“But, Mr. Holmes, my wife...” Mr. Cubitt sounded genuinely perturbed.

Against his better judgement, Sherlock turned around at the door: “Oh, I can recommend a very apt divorce lawyer, should you be willing to face the truth. Otherwise, I'd advise you to turn a blind eye, for your wife is rather young and attractive, I guess, so if you wish her to stay with you, you should be willing to compromise.”

Even Sherlock knew by now that he had spoiled his chance for payment with this particular deduction.

Sod it, he would need another case.

\------------------------------------------------------------

He went down the street in search for a cab, then remembered his last fare, and decided to walk to the next station instead, all the while absentmindedly fumbling with his phone in his pocket. He had turned it off after texting Mr. Cubitt the night before, and hadn’t dared to switch it back on yet. Now he was seriously contemplating at least checking his mailbox, but had no idea how to deal with a message form John; or the lack of it.

He wandered the tree-lined roads of Didsbury, admiring the beautiful architecture and the fondly preserved old houses. One did not perceive oneself in a run-down northern industrial town in this place, but rather in a wealthy green suburbia somewhere south. Sherlock strolled idly, not minding were he ended up; he was in no hurry to get back to his lonely hotel room.

Finally, as dusk settled in, he found himself opposite East Didsbury station, where he boarded a train that took him back to Piccadilly. As he reached his hotel he had still not decided if he preferred his phone ringing again or to stay silent. He flopped on his bed (only remembering his sore backside when it was too late, and therefore wincing as it made contact with the mattress) and put the offending device on the nightstand, eyeing it scornfully after turning on his belly.

What would he do if John had phoned?

Could he bear it if he hadn’t?

Did he want John to call him?

Would he be able to talk to him right now?

Would that even be a good idea?

He lay on his bed, his cheek placed on his folded hands, brooding, looking helplessly at the tastefully carpeted floor as if it could be expected to give him sound relationship advice.

For god’s sake, he was behaving like a hormone-driven teenager, melodramatically suffering heartache; despite the fact that Sherlock, as a teenager, had been vastly preoccupied with dissecting dead animals he’d stumbled upon in the copious grounds surrounding his family home, or smoking weed, or popping pills, or all of this at the same time; but certainly not had he been engaged in any kind of affair one could possibly call amorous (some events of a sexual nature _had_ taken place back then, but Sherlock regarded them as business transactions, so they didn't count, and had largely been deleted, anyway. No bit of advice was to be gained form them regarding these circumstances.)

But perhaps that was the problem right now?

Could it be that his utter lack of experience in dealing with sentiment, and his refusal to acknowledge the importance of social skills in general, and the need of human beings for companionship plus skin contact specifically, prevented him from reacting adequately in this matter?

As a man who believed in the beneficial effect of a logical approach towards all problems of live, Sherlock thought very hard about his next step. If he was right in lacking sufficient know-how in an area, it would be required to gather more empirical knowledge to evaluate his situation and come to a final conclusion based on objective facts. So, if he had absolutely no clue how to act in his muddled affair with John, he needed to acquire data regarding relationships and crisis within.

Well, he was in Manchester. Where, if not here, could he find male coupling and gay drama concentrated in a precisely outlined area some 500 yards away from his lodgings?

He got up and made for the door, but turned around before leaving to decidedly grab and pocket his still switched-off phone. Then he went down to Canal Street.

\------------------------------------------

He started at Via Fossa, where he'd leant against the downstairs bar for approximately 30 seconds before being chatted up by a rather distinguished business man in his mid-forties (greying temples, Armani suit, bit flashy, but certainly well-off, openly gay, successful, senior executive in an advertising agency, from Irish descent) who offered to buy him a drink, which Sherlock accepted, opting for Perrier, at which his new acquaintance raised an eyebrow, but ordered and paid just the same.

After the expected preliminaries ( _"Where are you from?" - "London." - "What do you do?" - "Consultant." - "What brought you up north?" - "Business dealings."_ ) the first really intriguing question was asked: "So, are you all on your own?"

"Well, sorry, to be honest, I'm not sure."

That earned Sherlock another arched eyebrow, accompanied by a crooked smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That means that I might actually be in a relationship, but not sure if that's a good idea."

"I won't be the reason for a split-up, darling." But the man did not move away, instead he kept staring expectantly at Sherlock, licking his lips.

"I don't want you to be either." Sherlock deadpanned, at which the man snorted, eyeing Sherlock up and down.

"You are quite a piece of work, aren't you?" It sounded not really offended. "What's your name?"

"John."

"Stuart."

They shook hands.

"So, care to elaborate? I'd like to know if I'll be getting a leg over before I'll spend a fortune on some fancy French bubble." Stuart leaned in confidentially. He smelled nice.

Sherlock took a deep breath and steeled himself: "I do live with someone, down in London. The sex is spectacular, and he says he loves me, but, sometimes, I've no idea how to deal with ... it."

"And?"

"And that worries me. I can't act as is expected of me. I'm just not like, you know, normal people."

Sherlock stared intensely down at the bottom of his glass.

"In my experience, there are no so-called normal people. Everybody's an island."

Sherlock laughed dryly, and it sounded more like a sob.

"Is that from a song?"

"Of course." Stuart smiled. "Sorry, I don't think I'm the one to give you sound advice. That's all a bit ... above my head, you know. I'm just looking for a shag. Take care." A quick pad on Sherlock's arm, and he was gone.

Well, at least he did not die from mortification. Sherlock drank up, looked around, saw no one he'd want to engage in conversation with, and left. The night was still young, and there were always plenty of other places to go.

Next he went to Bar Pop, where he ended up talking to a very young boy named Jason on the verge of coming out to his fundamentally Christian parents, despite fearing their supposedly negative reaction. Jason was slightly overweight and had an unhealthy pasty complexion, sporting a few festering spots on his forehead and nose. Sherlock felt in no position to counsel the youth, who kept on pouring his heart out, talking nineteen to the dozen in an unnerving and utterly camp high-pitched whine (it was a total marvel to Sherlock how anyone could _NOT_ think of him as GAY as a picnic basket), until Sherlock told him that he was quite sure that he would burn in hell for his sins, only to shut the boy up, which earned him a few hostile glances from the surrounding patrons. As he tried to tone down his remark by adding in a solemn voice that he would pray for Jason’s soul, the landlord finally had enough, and Sherlock got – not for the first time in his life – barred from the premises; but it was a first time having someone shout after him: "We don't need no bible thumpers 'round here. Stuff the ten commandments up your tight arse, Jesus freak!"

Brilliant, he'd quickly achieved to be called a freak even up here.

To divert attention away from himself, he turned a corner, and suddenly stood at the top of some steps leading down to a dark basement bar called Company. The bouncer was clad in black leather and looked him up and down before stepping aside, letting Sherlock pass.

He found himself in a dimly lit cellar. House music was blearing on a deafening level, and the small crowd at the bar turned, watching the newcomer expectantly. Sherlock registered from the corner of his eyes that some carnal action was going on in the gloomy corners, and made straight for the bar to order a brandy - feeling definitely in need of something stronger than sparkling water by now. It did not take long before he was approached by a big hairy bloke wearing tight black jeans, heavy boots, and some silver chains across his chest - and nothing else.

Sherlock suddenly and without preamble felt a strong hand squeezing his bottom, and he sharply sucked in his breath as a stinging bolt of hot white pain shot through his body. He turned around to face his admirer, taking the unwanted fondling as some kind of compliment, and stated calm but firmly: "Could you please refrain from grabbing my buttocks, Sir, for they are still sore after a good thrashing I'd been submitted to by my boyfriend yesterday."

The man smiled at him: "Really, luvvie? I bet you deserved it."

Sherlock smiled back sweetly: "That's actually debatable. Listen; as you don't seem to be exceptionally... _vanilla_ ... perhaps we could have a chat?"

“I’m not one for chatting, pet.” The man moved his hand to the small of Sherlock’s back before stemming both of his impressive arms and shovellike fists at his hips, fixing Sherlock with a decidedly predatory glance.

“Right…” Sherlock licked his lips. “How about I tell you about my … _misconduct_ … and then you can decide upon my … _chastisement_?” Sherlock looked the man straight in the eye, unblinking, not averting his gaze.

“Oh, I’m all ears.”, his opponent growled in a deep voice.

When Sherlock had finished recounting his previous evening, he was surrounded by three strong men, heavily tattooed and wearing obviously fetish clothing, all disapprovingly shaking their heads in disbelieve: "That sounds grave, mate." One said, padding Sherlock's shoulder in encouragement. "That's not what a responsible dom should do." Another added. "Quite right. That could have ended in lasting damage", the first man, who'd by now had introduced himself as Quentin, remarked earnestly.

"Well, you know, I provoked him, so maybe it was all my fault..."

"No!" Three voices yelled back at him in unison.

Sherlock just blinked, startled into silence by the staunch reply he had received.

“Did you tell him to stop?”

“Well, yes, I think I did.”

“And did he stop?”

“No … but there would be no point in doing these things if he’d stop when I’m telling him to do so. It would be way too predictable. I could too easily manipulate him in doing what I want; but the whole point for me is to be overwhelmed by someone else whom I can’t control, and who’s actions I’m unable to foresee.”

“So you don’t have a safeword?”

“Sorry, a … _what_?”

The three men exchanged a look.

“A safeword, honey. A phrase that makes him stop if you honestly can’t endure any more.”

“As I said, where would be the point? That would totally spoil the experience.”

"Listen, love," Quentin started to elaborate, sounding sober and sensible, "what you’ve been doing is actually quite dangerous. The relationship between dom and sub is of a complex and complicated nature. It's not the dom who holds all the power, and the sub isn't just meek and obeys. It's a delicate balance that has to be discussed and adjusted all the time to meet the needs and expectations of both participants. Otherwise, it's just not healthy."

"Well, I'm not sure if these attributions are fitting." Sherlock replied aloof and a bit embarrassed. "It's not that he's coming over as a leather clad punisher - no offence - and I honestly don't see myself as his submissive little boy. The pain clears my mind. It comforts me. It's me who benefits most. I know I'm not like other people. I'm annoying, and demanding, and impatient, and rude, and sometimes I need to be reminded that I'm not alone in this world. So, that's what ... my boyfriend ... does. And I know he loves me, but..." He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

"... but sometimes, it's too much?"

"Yes."

"And then you don't know how to handle it?"

"Yes."

"So you feel the need for some strong sensuous input, drowning out all other thoughts and doubts?"

"Yes!"

“And you trust your boyfriend with that?”

“Of course.”

"Well, you're his sub." Three broad smiles met Sherlock's incredulous stare.

He just rolled his eyes and bought the next round.

\---------------------------------------------------

The evening ended in the early hours of the next day with four totally hammered men exchanging vows of eternal friendship while hugging each other companionably, despite Sherlock's conviction that they would never meet again. Quentin, Ralph, and "Godfuck" - _for heaven's sake_ \- had proofed themselves as trustworthy, reliable, and well-informed sources, who had listened to his stories without so much as blinking an eye, now and then throwing in a question that reflected their familiarity with the subject. After some time, it had been so easy to talk openly to them, narrating the story of his and John's descent into some kind of weird relationship. They did not judge his actions, nor did they criticise him.

When Sherlock had ended, there had been a short silence.

Then "Godfuck" - of all - had started to speak, the words slightly slurred due to at least one pint too many: "You should talk to each other. Perhaps it's too early to meet face to face, but you should get in touch non the less. You both sacrificed so much to be together. He gave up his wife and kid, and you gave up your self-sufficient solitude and opened up enough to let another person in your live - for you don't seem the naturally trusting and accommodating type - so I think it's well worth another try. But ... go slowly. Take your time. Think about what you want, and what you could offer in exchange. Don't rush it, mate. And don't push either of you."

So, as he'd walked back to his hotel, swaying just a little, Sherlock bravely turned on his phone, to find 13 unanswered calls, 32 new texts, and 18 voice mails.

But distance kills the best of intentions. Sherlock simply froze inside, his thumb hovering over the display. He just couldn’t face this, not right now.

He looked around, trying to locate his current position, then crossed the street and walked east until he found himself in front of Cruz 101.

“Membership?” the guy behind the bluish neon-lit counter asked somewhat bored, but as Sherlock leaned over and whispered something in his ear, he suddenly became much more awake, and even started to smile broadly as he waved Sherlock through. Well, sometimes his brother’s connections proofed very useful indeed.

Despite the early hours, the club was still packed, the dancefloor crowded. The air - if you could call the moist haze swirled around by three lazy fans on the ceiling something like that - smelled of sex, testosterone, expensive aftershave, and booze.

Sherlock went over to one of the bars and ordered a water again, but this time no one thought it odd. He grabbed his small bottle, then started wandering about, circling the dancefloor, taking in the extravaganza acted out before him: loads of handsome sweaty man raved topless, showing off their defined pectorals, trained biceps, and hard abdominals. Some brave and confident dancers had entered small platforms, where they exhibited their exceptional talents at a modern form of exotic dancing. The music was so loud that the bass line resonated deep in the guts. White bolts of strobe light flashed rhythmically, freezing the picture of the stirring crowd for the fraction of a second in the eye of the beholder, before dousing everything back in gracefully oblivious darkness.

Sherlock felt suddenly dizzy, and leaned his back against a banister, separating a plush seating area with low tables from the busy floor. Almost instantly hands started stroking his shoulders and neck from behind, and, as he did not move away, strong hands pulled his head back and turned his face just a fraction to kiss him deep and luscious. The kiss tasted of gin and peppermint and desire, and felt rather pleasant and very erotic. Sherlock just let it happen, the dim light and awkward angle making it impossible to see the anonymous man who was snogging him passionately.

"Care to move somewhere more private?" a low voice mumbled after a while against his lips, but, as Sherlock just shook his head, its owner simply pulled back and vanished, submerging in the amorphous mass of partygoers. Sherlock smiled to himself and took a sip of water, touching his long pale fingers slightly to his still wet lips.

Suddenly two men appeared in front of him, looking him up and down. One was wearing just a white singlet and tight blue Levis 501, resting low on his narrow hips; the other sported black jeans and a tight black shirt. Both were blond and probably ten years younger than himself, the pupils of their bright blue eyes shrunken to the size of pinheads. They smiled erratically at Sherlock, who smiled back, whereupon the boy in white took a step towards him and kissed him demanding and open mouthed. After a while, his companion took over, putting a small pink pill on the tip of his tongue before pushing it deep into Sherlock's mouth, who swallowed, only to be almost instantly rewarded with the unmistakeable rush of endorphins only really good Ecstasy could provide. Suddenly all the colours around them seemed to glow and shine, some all too bright, some warm and dark, and the thudding beats merged together with the flickering lights, cocooning them in sound and beams and heat and body and lips and tongue and hands and skin and ... _oh_.

Someone grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled him through the crowd, towards the toilets - sharp neon light and white walls, hurting the eye - and then the three of them were pressed together in a small cubicle, Sherlock sandwiched in the middle, and there was excited fumbling with buttons and zips and flies, and then the man in the black shirt fell to his knees in front of him and swallowed Sherlock's cock, while the other man pushed two spitslick fingers up his arse from behind, holding him upright with an arm over his chest. Sherlock leaned into him, resting the back of his head on the shoulder of the man behind him, straining his neck. He felt lips and teeth caress his throat, and moved his right hand behind, bracing himself with his left hand against the flimsy plywood frame. Then Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the hot leaking shaft of the man behind him, and stroked eagerly and furious, until he felt a shudder run through the body pressed against his, and then warm wetness seeped trough his fingers, while the digits pressed inside him found his prostate, and he gasped, pulling out of the hot mouth of the man sucking him off just in time to shoot his load on his chest instead of down his throat, only then realising that the man had been furiously masturbating, coming only seconds after Sherlock's cum had started to trickle down his shirtfront.

They all slumped down into a sweaty heap, exhausted, covered to different degrees in cum, breathing heavily. When they had recovered a bit, they cleaned themselves up as good as possible with toilet paper, then kissed one last time, before slipping out of the small booth. Sherlock let the two men leave before he went up to the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. He'd lost his water bottle, so he drank some from the tab, before making his way through the still revelling crowd towards the clubs exit. As he stepped out on the street, he was surprised that the sun had already risen, but the air was delightfully and refreshingly crisp after the musky perspiration inside the venue.

At first, he had no idea how to get back to his hotel, but luckily some other nightcrawlers helpfully pointed him into the right direction, so he reached his room around eight o'clock in the morning, slightly dishevelled, a bit tipsy, still euphorically high, smelling of sex and the sweat of other men. He stripped in front of the bathroom mirror, throwing his slightly soiled cloths carelessly onto the floor, then drank two large glasses of water, before crawling between the soft cool sheets of his luxuriously big bed. He longed for a cigarette, and seriously contemplated ringing room service to get him some, but fell asleep while still pondering this thought.

The best thing was that he had totally forgotten about John for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that Via Fossa isn't called Via Fossa anymore but when I went there a lifetime ago that was the name of the place. And as I'm a nostalgic twat, I stick to it.
> 
> I am really sorry for all the people injured at the IRA bombing of Manchester in 1996. That's really not funny. If you want to know more about it, start here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1996_Manchester_bombing


	31. Close your eyes, son, and this won't hurt a bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV.

_And I remember quiet evenings trembling close to you..._  
**-Tom Waits -**

John woke up to a silent flat. At first, that felt rather nice, because it was very seldom tacit and quiet at 221b. There was always some violin scratching – well, impossible at the moment, John remembered – or banging sounds from the kitchen – encompassing everything from boiling the kettle to cooking meth – or just Sherlock dashing about – yelling at his brother, Mrs. Hudson, or clients, while clambering over their furniture; on occasions, even more ferocious noises could be heard – deafening shooting at the walls with a Browning, for example, the odd explosion now and then, fisticuffs involving hired assassin, and so on...

So, tranquillity was rare; and therefore unsettling, because it could only mean that Sherlock a) was plotting something stupid and potentially dangerous or b) had already done something stupid and potentially dangerous. John couldn’t believe that, after last night, he still had the nerve to behave … well, the way he always behaved: ridiculous, inconsiderate, childish, and altogether impossible.

John sight inwardly, then sight outwardly, then got up and made his way towards the kitchen. It was just past eight o’clock, and he could really do with a cuppa.

It was no surprise to him that the chair he had indicated for Sherlock was empty. But it was still annoying, for it meant that Sherlock had deliberately disobeyed John, which forced him to take appropriate actions, leading to further escalations concerning their already slightly off-balanced connection.

Had last night gone too far?

John hadn’t been sure halfway through if they were acting out a scene, or if this was real anger breaking free. Sherlock had sent mixed signals: of course, he had been in pain – that was _one_ significant point of the whole exercise – but nevertheless, he had endured his punishment, without being restrained or anything. John did not harbour any illusions regarding control of Sherlock. If Sherlock surrendered, it was out of his own free will, of his own decision and on his own terms; he was strong and skilled in numerous martial arts; he could overpower John any time he wanted, which made bending him to his wishes even more demanding – and rewarding. That was why Sherlock staying and taking the thrashing must have meant that he had been ok with it; he actually had provoked John until he'd eventually snapped.

But Sherlock’s behaviour afterwards had been … unusual, to say the least. John had brought him on edge more than once before, but never had he shown signs of real fear or uncontrollable panic. Not until last night. That had been … a bit disconcerting.

John had hoped that Sherlock would realise that his reckless disregard had called for radical measures if he just gave him room to think about it, while all the time feeling the consequences of his actions to remind him and help him focus. But it seemed that Sherlock had opted out of it.

That was not the way this was supposed to go! Sherlock couldn’t just act as it pleased him. This would only tip the scales further. What did he expect John to do about it? Was he testing the limits of John’s conduct? Was he trying to figure out how far John would go? This would have been so very typical Sherlock – no sense of boundaries, curios beyond reason, demanding, aspiring perfection, never going for anything less than the ultimate and extreme, be it thrill or pleasure; always looking for new experiences, good or bad.

Handling him was a challenge to patience and sometimes sanity. But that only made it even more worth the while, for John was rewarded with a glimpse behind the high walls Sherlock had erected around himself, and granted to steal a glance at a rare display of raw devotion and open vulnerability, something only he was allowed to see and experience. This knowledge made their exchanges even more intoxicating; Sherlock - whom John had called a machine occasionally - at these times became almost human. He needed strong stimuli to loose himself and to forget about his defence mechanisms, but when he finally got past this stage, what John was permitted to witness was a genuine transformation of someone cold and detached into a creature of sensual passion, desperate to be touched, controlled, guided, and taken apart. Only under extreme pressure was Sherlock able to let go and act out his undoubtedly existent, but normally repressed, emotions.

And John was the only one who could provide this input, who dared to come close enough to offer this to Sherlock. But as Sherlock seemed to need ever more escalating experiences, and craved more and more extreme lessons, the lines between vigorous but necessary _(good)_ and too harsh and therefore agitating _(bad)_ had started to blur.

But nonetheless, it fascinated John. He loved it. Here was one human being willing to go as far as possible; who was deeply interested in exploring his dark needs and base desires; who wasn’t infringed by prudery, or restraint by notions of what generally counted as acceptable behaviour – in bed or otherwise. It should have been a perfect match. But somehow it wasn’t. John meandered between shying away from the lingering discontent he sometimes felt, and openly addressing it, only to be reprimanded by Sherlock, who, outside a scene, seemed incapable of admitting actually having feelings in general, and especially any tender leanings towards John.

It was infuriating!

When the kettle clicked off, John poured the hot water into two mugs, adding loads of sugar and a splash of milk to one, before wandering over into the sitting room.

Empty.

“Sherlock?”

John looked around, but found no sign of recent occupation. He went towards the steps, glancing up the gloomy staircase.

“Sherlock, you up there?”

After roaming around the flat, looking into every room, John finally concluded that he was alone. Sherlock’s coat was gone, together with his keys and mobile.

He got his phone out and pressed the speed-dial for Sherlock’s number, but was immediately forwarded to the mailbox.

“Sherlock, were are you? It’s just past eight. Do you have a case? Call me.”

When he had finished his tea – letting the second, all too sweet one, get cold - he called Lestrade.

“Did you offer a case to Sherlock last night?” John inquired as casually as possible after some preliminary chitchat.

“No, I’ve got nothing interesting on at the moment, to be honest. Why you asking?”

“Nothing, just … we should meet sometime for a pint, Greg.”

“’Course, if you can spare the time, mate. Just give me a call.”

After hanging up, John made toast and eggs and took the chance to eat breakfast without someone pinching bites from his plate or poking around in his food with his fingers (regardless where they had been before). 

Then he called Sherlock again. 

Voicemail, again. 

“Where the hell are you? Call me back.”

His phone must be turned off. Perhaps the battery was flat. These things happened - even to Sherlock.

John decided to type out a text, painstakingly hacking at his phone with two fingers – _hetalk_.

_\- Where r u? Case? Call me! Need 2 talk. -_

John knew that the abbreviations would drive Sherlock round the bend. Fair enough! If he thought it right to bugger off at dawn without even leaving a note, he deserved at least a bit of grammatical terror.

When John had showered and got dressed, there still was no message from Sherlock. 

He went down to Mrs. Hudson.

“Did you see Sherlock this morning? He must have left early.”

“Him? Early?” Their landlady sounded mildly dubious. “No, sorry, John, but I took ... a sleeping pill last night and was right off my face, to be honest. I actually slept in this morning.” She sounded slightly embarrassed, but John was actually grateful for her consumption of various legal – and some probably illegal – substances, as this meant she hadn’t been able to pay attention to their practices upstairs last evening.

“Well, ok, it’s just, he’s gone … without … well, never mind.”

“John.” Mrs. Hudson touched his arm softly as he was turning around to heed back upstairs. “Is everything all right with the two of you?” She smiled coyly.

“Well, yes. Yes, of course. Why you’re asking?” He felt suddenly a bit uneasy.

“Oh, it’s none of my business, but he seemed a little … odd … the last few weeks, don’t you think?” Mrs. Hudson sounded seriously troubled.

“Sherlock? Odd?” John tried very hard to suppress a smile.

“Oh, I don’t know … perhaps it’s nothing, but first all the fighting, then you went away, then he went away, then the flat nearly burned down …”

“That was an accident.” John intersected sharply.

“Oh, I don't mind, not when everything was done up so nicely afterwards, but then the two of you went off together, and I just thought … well, but it’s probably really nothing…?” She watched John expectantly.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you implying something?” John cocked his head to one side and looked back as innocently as possible.

The woman blushed slightly. “I just wanted to say: do be careful. You don’t know him the way I do.”

“Well, I think I know him pretty good by now.” John flustered a little bit.

“Of course, you do. Thick as thieves, that's what you are. But you haven’t seen him back … _then_ , you know, before … it just wasn’t a pretty sight, that’s all I’m saying.” She sighed, and nervously smoothed down her immaculate apron, looking at her twitching hands as she continued: “You might think I’m taking liberties, but I heartily advise you to tread carefully.”

“I really appreciate your concern for me…”

“It’s not _you_ I’m concerned about, John. You can well look after yourself. But with him, it’s a whole different business. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Aware of what, exactly?” John was drawn between being annoyed and intrigued by her interfering.

“How much he depends on you…? Well, I know, he goes about shouting needing no one, but at least we both know that’s a blatant lie?” It came out more as a question than a statement.

John looked at her rather fondly. “Listen, I know what you mean. And I promise, I’m looking after him properly, ok?”

“Of course you are.” She patted his arm, smiling reassuringly, before ushering him out of her flat.

\---------------------------------------------------------

_\- Sherlock, wtf? –_

_\- What’s going on? Where r u? –_

_\- U r actually forcing me 2 repeat myself. -_

_\- Turn. On. Your. Phone. –_

_\- Did something happen? –_

_\- Turn. On. Your. BLOODY. Phone. –_

_\- It’s called mobile so you can be on call while MOBILE! –_

_\- Y r u doing this? –_

_\- I no u hate me writing like this. I’ll continue until u rep! –_

_\- Sometimes I hate u. –_

_\- U infuriating git! –_

_\- No, that’s not true, and u no that. –_

_\- CALL ME! –_

John settled down in his chair and tried to read the paper, but was unable to concentrate. His eyes flickered over to his phone on the low coffee table every other minute, wishing more and more desperately for it to ring or buzz or chime.

He finally gave in and called again, only to be permanently forwarded onto the mailbox.

“Listen, Sherlock … I’m starting to worry. You could be just down the road and lost at Tesco's, or in Mexico fighting a homicidal drug cartel, for all I know. Please …” He was cut short by a shrill and unrelenting beep.

“… please, just call me and tell me you are ok. Please.” He hung up, only to dial again a minute later.

“I need to know that you are all right. I mean … you know, this is not easy for me … or us …” Again, his words - and hesitancy - were ruthlessly interrupted by the unrelenting and indifferent machine.

“I just wanted to say … if this is about last night … well … I don’t know…” Disconnected once again!

“Fuck, I hate this thing! Please, don’t make me do this over the phone. Sherlock, please, just pick up.” This time John ended the call, to safe at least a tiny bit of his dignity intact.

By noon he had decided to stop waiting. In his experience, starring at phones had no direct effect on them. You couldn’t force them to ring, no matter how hard you tried. Actually, most times, the opposite was true: the damned things buzzed precisely when you had given up all hope and did not expect them to sound ever again. So he stuffed his mobile into his jacket and went for a walk in Regents Park.

_\- I’m in the Park. Just in case u decide 2 come home. –_

_\- Regents Park. –_

_\- I’m at the pond. It’s quite cold, despite the sun. –_

_\- Is it sunny where u r? Or cold? –_

_\- Monsoon? –_

_\- Snow? –_

_\- Sirocco? –_

_\- Did I spell it correctly? -_

_\- Am I actually texting u about the weather? Look how deep I’ve plummeted without your indispensable animation. And how fast. –_

This was hopeless. He went back home to his empty flat.

There, John made himself a sandwich - because the time of day called for lunch, and he was a man of routines after all - only to eye it without much appetite, leaving it on its plate until it started to dry, the cheese becoming slippery and slightly transparent around the edges. He binned it uneaten.

“Sherlock, I don’t even know if you listen to my messages. This is totally unlike you. What’s going on?”

“Ok, if you want to play hide and seek with me, I’m fine with that. Don’t think I’ll be sitting round, only waiting for you to call. I’ll switch mine off too, I swear, if you won’t answer me! Sherlock!”

“For fuck’s sake, if you can’t be bothered to point out the futility of my utterly disgusting begging, I honestly fear something terrible must have happened to you. Please, just to put me at ease; just one call!”

“Am I imagining this, or did we have a similar conversation when one consulting detective returned from the dead, interrupting my date? I thought we had sorted that out? I thought you understood by now…”

“I genuinely hate your mailbox from the bottom of my heart! I thought we had settled and agreed that playing dead was no sound foundation for a relationship. That it’s childish and ruthless and totally unacceptable! Hm, Sherlock?”

“I am talking to you! At least I am trying. Why does it always has to be so damned hard to get through to you? Why do you feel the need to run away and hide? Oh god, I’m pouring my heart out to you, and you are probably just wandering around the London sewerage in search of a nice rotting corpse and forgot to charge your phone…”

“If that’s the case, just stop listening right now and delete everything I said. … I love you. Please, get in touch.”

When it got dark, John switched on his reading lamp and took up the novel Sherlock had so derogatory commented on. He forced himself to read every word on at least five consecutive pages before glancing over at his phone again.

_\- You were right, the book’s boring. Happy? –_

_\- Please, tell me, what have I done? -_

_\- Please, tell me, what should I do? –_

_\- Can I make it up 2 you somehow. –_

_\- Just in case u missed it: I <3 u! –_

_\- U r actually forcing me 2 use emojis. I hope u suffer as much as I do. –_

Around ten, John seriously contemplated to call Mycroft. Only his recent unsettling experiences with the man held him back - for the moment - to contact Sherlock’s brother. But perhaps a well-placed threat might do the trick?

_\- I’ll call your brother if u don’t pick up. –_

_\- Ok, u probably know I won't. –_

_\- But don’t be too sure of yourself, Sherlock. Just wait and see! –_

John went to bed shortly after midnight. As he lay curled up between the sheets, he took his phone from the nightstand, its display the only light in the dark room.

“Hey, I just wanted to say goodnight. Wherever you are, I honestly hope that you’re alive and kicking – hopefully just a figure of speech, but I never know with you.”

“Please, call me in the morning. Or anytime, actually. Or send a text. Or call Mrs. Hudson, if you don’t want to speak to me.”

“But with her, you should call in the morning, and not too early, mind you. I think she switched back from weed to black Afghan, and you know how that affects her… Good night.”

“Listen, I know we have to talk. I know you don’t like the thought of it, and I don’t like the thought of it, either, but nevertheless … please, let’s talk tomorrow. Oh, and just in case you didn’t get it by now, which you probably haven’t: I miss you, you berk. Good night.”

After that, John lost count of how often he’d called Sherlock’s number again, just to listen to his deep voice reeling of his announcement slightly bored: _“This is Sherlock Holmes. I’m unable to take your call at the moment. Please leave a message. I’ll get back in touch as soon as possible”_

But John couldn’t, and Sherlock didn’t, which must mean that Sherlock’s mailbox had reached its limits and was bursting; which consecutively indicated that he hadn’t accessed it for the whole day; which suggested that he was either seriously appalled, or… John vigorously forbade himself venturing into the alternative, for fretting in the middle of the night never came to any good. But suddenly, he desperately wished for access to Mrs. Hudson’s stash.


	32. Heart of the Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning: this chapter contains vivid descriptions of self-harming behaviour.**  
>  PLEASE HEED THE TAGS!

_No one can hold a light to your misery_  
_You're number one_  
_Being hard done_  
_Hard done by_  
_You'll get by with your smile_  
_Wicked smile and laughing at the misfortune of others_  
…  
_So hold a light to my misery_  
_But don't send it up in flames_  
_It's only I who take the blame_  
_But try me anyway_  
_And you'll get by you'll get by_  
_With your wicked little smile_  
**\- The Libertines -**

Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep, actually more dozing than dossing, due to all the amphetamines still happily travelling through his veins. Initially, he felt hot, and kicked off the sheets, but then he started to shiver, so wrapped himself up again, rolling from one side onto the other, shoving the pillows around with increasingly impatient frenzy, however never finding a cosy position for his body to rest in comfortably.

But after an hour of tossing and turning, exhaustion took over, and Sherlock finally settled lying flat on his stomach, one knee nearly pulled up to his chest, only to be woken by a faint buzzing noise that penetrated his foggy and tired mind, keeping him teetering on the edge of sleep. It was a muffled metallic rattling, and for a moment Sherlock feared that he had forgotten to put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door handle, but then he noticed that the sound was coming from the bathroom.

Unable to ignore it, he gave up on sleep and stumbled out of bed, staggering over to the bathroom. The noise seemed to emanate from the pile of cloths carelessly abandoned on the tiled floor. Sherlock crouched down and sorted through the crumpled fabric as it dawned on him what was going on: he hadn't switched off his phone after checking it last night, and the mailbox must be overflowing by now, so the calls were put through.

"What the hell...?!" Sherlock muttered, before touching the display to disconnect. He stared down at his mobile with some kind of astonished horror, and nearly dropped it when it started to ring again merely ten seconds after the last call.

It just wouldn't stop!

Of course, he recognised the caller ID.

He should just switch it off.

Or he could take the call.

He inhaled and counted to three.

Then he pressed the green symbol.

"Could you please stop doing this! I'm trying to get some sleep!" he barked sharply down the line.

"Oh ... sorry ... good morning to you too?" John sounded taken aback. "I didn't think you'd answer, honestly."

"Then what's the point in calling at all?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because I am an idiot." Even Sherlock could hear the warm, fond smile in John's voice. It felt like a punch to his gut.

"A fault confessed is half redressed." Sherlock retorted primly. There was a short pause.

Sherlock's thumb hovered hesitatingly over the display.

"At least you are alive." John sounded genuinely relieved.

"It doesn't feel like that at the moment. In fact, I'm rather knackered."

"Had a tough night, then?"

"Well, solved a case - just a three, I'm afraid, and no payment in sight - then went out, got barred from a bar, got chatted up, took some E, and finally got screwed by two blokes in the stalls of a gay club."

The silence that settled between them suddenly felt hostile and cold.

"So, business as usual." John tried very hard for cheerful and casual - and failed miserably.

"Stop texting me. Do not call me again." Sherlock's voice was dry and firm. No bickering or banter anymore; this was serious.

"Where are you?" Was that panic in John's voice? "Please, just tell me..."

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock hung up mid-sentence, cutting John's words off.

\---------------------------------------------------------

John stared bewildered at the dead phone in his hand. Did that really just happen? Did Sherlock split up with him? After all they'd been through, John Watson was to be dumped over the phone, like it had been some silly teenage fling? What the fuck was going on here?

John entertained the possibility of calling Sherlock again, until the utter futility of such action became clear to him. Sherlock could just hang up on him again. Or he could switch off his phone; had probably already done so.

What a shitty mess! He was so fucked, helplessly jittering in their London home, while Sherlock held him at arms length, making out with total strangers only god knew where.

Well, perhaps, there was one other entity that might actually know his whereabouts. Extreme situations called for extreme measures, the end justifying the means. 

John scrolled through his contacts until he found the number of the other Holmes brother.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock slumped back against the bathtub, his head dangling between his knees, until he got his breathing back under control. He still clutched his mobile, knuckles whitening, inhaling deeply through his nose a few times, while pressing his eyes tightly shut, until the commencing hyperventilating fit slowly abided. Then he got to his feet, went over to the sink, and drowned a whole glass of water.

Watching himself in the mirror, he was surprised to look – well, not ordinary, that would never happen, being graced with strange slate eyes, angular pale features, and dishevelled dark curls – but much the same as always. None of his raging inner turmoil was showing on his face. No one who accidentally set eyes on him would have thought that he had just ditched … John … for good.

The intensely fierce devastation suddenly surging up within him, mixing with anger and despair, hit him unexpectedly. Only very rarely did Sherlock throw his inhibitions to the wind and allowed himself such uncontrolled behaviour. Now, as the urge to give in to his black mood became nearly unbearable, he felt the strong need to destroy something, to express his emotions in a random and totally preposterous act of violence.

He smiled coldly at his reflection, then drove his right fist precisely into the centre of the mirror, sending sharp, glittering shards of glass flying. His fingers started to bleed instantly, but Sherlock felt no pain, just deep satisfaction for having violated not only an inanimated object, but also his ridiculously fallacious body, who's mundane needs were responsible for the present miserable circumstances he had to dwell in. It served him right.

Only when his blood started to drip in dark red splashes onto the white marble sink did it occur to Sherlock that he had cut himself deeper than he'd at first registered. He deftly pulled two slivers from his knuckles before putting his fingers under the cold tap for two minutes – watching light red streaks of blood washing down the drain – then wrapped his hand in one of the small white towels, until he was sure the bleeding had stopped.

“Stupid!” he hissed back at his splintered face in the mirror. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

\----------------------------------------------

By mid-morning, John honestly thought that god must be much more easily accessible than Mycroft Holmes. Tracking down the government official proved to be complicated and time consuming. Just as John was on the brink of hauling his phone against the rather misused, but only lately freshly painted, living room wall – it would have been one of the less bizarre things hitting it – a sharp knock on the door stopped him short.

When he opened the door – changing the locks had its advantages – he was startled to find the man he'd been trying to track down for several hours standing on his threshold, smiling inscrutably while plucking on his immaculate cufflink.

“Hello, John.” Mycroft greeted him politely.  
“Mycroft!” John exclaimed, flabbergasted.

“Yes, John. It's me.” Sherlock's brother talked to him like he was speaking to a slightly dimwitted child. “May I come in?”

“Sorry, of course.” John stepped aside.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock, after abandoning all thoughts of sleep, took a cold shower instead, dressed, and went down to get some decent coffee – treating the small kettle, tea bags, sachets of instant coffee and milk powder sitting on a small table in his room with exactly the right amount of scornful contempt freeze-dried comestibles deserved in his opinion.

As he stepped into the dining room on the ground floor, the stench of fried bacon hit his nostrils full force, making him nauseous. Feeling still a bit giddy after his night out and lack of sleep, the crowd of people mobbing voraciously around the breakfast buffet appalled him. He was both disgusted and fascinated at the same time, while observing a wide range of eating habits: there was the fraction of mostly foreign guests who opted for full English, shovelling piles of bright yellow scrambled eggs (reminding Sherlock of processed brains), greasy sausages (resembling chubby children's fingers), and fried tomatoes (cooked to a slimy red mass) onto their plates. On the other end of the spectrum, some people just went for fruits, muesli, and dark wholewheat rye bread, unsuccessfully trying to suppress beaming with smug self-righteousness, while experiencing the glorious superiority of self-denial in the face of gluttonous fellow diners.

Sherlock by now seriously craved a coffee. Luckily, it was brewed by a noisy monstrosity that freshly grounded the beans for each cup, emanating wonderfully rich smells. Unfortunately, Sherlock found himself in a queue in front of it, squeezed just behind a middle aged German couple that loudly reflected on the poor state of British cuisine in general, before specifically questioning a nations taste if it considered it appropriate to serve pale slobbery mud (aka porridge) early in the morning, advertising it as the perfect kick-off to start the day. Sherlock was tempted to point out that the swig of whisky accompanying said dish made up for some of its shortcomings in flavour and texture, but suddenly, it was his turn to draw a coffee, and, with said beverage in hand, he sat blissfully down at a small table for two, taking a content sip of the sweet, hot, dark liquid.

He was not to enjoy his solitude for long. A tall, slim, dark haired women wearing glasses and a tailored navy suit _(Chanel, even the perfume was Nr. 5, around thirty-ish, professional business woman, LSE graduate, working in a male environment, investment banking? oil and gas trading?, single, dyes her hair dark brown, but is a natural blond, short sighted, wants to be taken serious)_ laid her hand on the back of the empty chair at his table and asked in a somehow husky voice: “Is it taken?”

Sherlock looked up at her. He just wanted to be left alone, drink his coffee, and think about his next steps, but even he was aware that refusing to acknowledge her question would be regarded as extremely rude.

“No. please...” He indicated for her to sit down.

Gladly, she belonged neither to the tourists, nor to the health food apostles. Her breakfast consisted of buttered toast with jam and a cappuccino.

“Thank you. It's mayhem down here around this time.”

Sherlock just gave her an uncommitted nod. She eyed him curiously for a moment, then averted her gaze to let it drift around the room, while taking a hearty bite of her toast. After she had finished, she licked her fingers appreciatively, than downed the rest of her coffee in one go.

“Business or pleasure?” she asked suddenly.

“Sorry. What?” Sherlock was startled by her sudden approach to conversation.

“Why are you here? Business or pleasure?” She smiled at Sherlock with a twinkle in her eye. He noted that she had taken off her spectacles, absent-mindedly chewing at the stem.

“Business.” He answered, wishing for a paper to hide behind.

“So, no pills and thrills for you?” She inquired cheekily, reminding Sherlock of a benign mixture of Irene and Janine.

“No.” He hoped giving monosyllabic answers might put her off.

“Sorry if I'm annoying you, but could you please, just for a moment, seem to be interested?” Sherlock shot her an alarmed look, but she just leaned over, whispering: “The guy over at the corner table, short blond hair, chequered shirt. You got him?” Sherlock nodded, scrutinising a middle aged man with thinning hair and a paunch _(average height, lawyer, married, two kids, from Middlesborough)_. “He tried to chat me up last night at the hotel bar.” The woman confessed.

“But you turned him down.” Sherlock stated.

“Yes, but only after he bought me a few drinks. Well, he seemed nice at first, and then I thought of it as a kind of compensation for listening to his boring tales. But he took it the wrong way, and suddenly became very determined and rather persistent, inviting me to his room. I declined, but he cornered me and tried to kiss me. I was able to push him away, but this morning, he was standing behind me in the line for the buffet, literally breathing down my neck, and now he keeps ogling me. So, please, can you just stay a few moments longer, and then we'll leave together?” She put her glasses back on and pushed a free strand of hair behind her ear.

“So, you don't want to be involved with him?”

“No, of course not. Just look at him.”

“You don't find him physically appealing?”

“It's not that. He's married, for god's sake. He didn't even bother removing his wedding band. Cheating on his wife while on a business trip. How low can one sink?”

Sherlock met her eyes for the first time, then smiled back at her, appraising her rather old-fashioned principles.

“Besides, I'm not into men.”

His company could truly have been worse.

“Well, I am.” Sherlock declared matter-of-factly, fixing his gaze on an obviously obese teenager taking his third helping of pancakes drenched in Lyle's, but registering the woman's widening grin from the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, is that so? Perhaps you'd like to have a go, then?”

Sherlock couldn't help it, he snickered, then looked over at the adjourning table.

“Ok. You know what? I'll sort it out for you.”

“Now, will you?” She raised one plucked eyebrow curiously, her words gently mocking him. “My knight in shining armour.” She even batted her lashes in a ridiculously flirtatious manner.

“Wait and see.”

With that, Sherlock rose and walked over to the man indicated. He just stood by the table until the poor sod raised his head.

“Sorry, can I help you?”

“Do you see the woman over there? Glasses, dark suit?”

The man squirmed a bit. “Yes...?”

“She doesn't fancy you. She told you so. But you won't stop molesting her.”

The table he shared with two other men fell silent.

“And why's that any of your business?” his victim asked back, putting down his napkin.

“She complained.” Sherlock's face was calm and set. He just kept standing a bit too close.

One could watch the man becoming more and more irritated by the minute. “No, wait, mate, I talked to her last night, she seemed amenable, you know what I mean, so I thought, well, yeah, we could go to my room and have a … good time.” He glanced up and nervously licked his lips, going for good-natured ladism among blokes, even trying to nudge Sherlock, a futile attempt due to their difference in height.

“No, I don't know what you mean. Enlighten me?”

The man started to feel obviously uncomfortable. “No offence. We're all adults here, so, where's the problem? No harm done.” He suddenly smiled lewdly. Sherlock returned the smile, but his eyes had hardened.

His prey seemed to relax a fraction.

“Well, honestly, what's she doing at a hotel bar at night if she's not looking for it? Dressed like that? She was openly asking for it. And I bought her some drinks as well, mind.”

“You utter romantic.” Sherlock's voice dripped with acid.

“Listen, it's not my fault if I was mistaken...”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock's voice had dropped to velvety depths as he carefully brushed some lint from the man's shoulder, the back of his fingers just lightly stroking the side of the man's throat, who swallowed audibly, and a shaky laugh escaped his mouth, as Sherlock's hand moved around to the nape of his neck. “Such misconceptions happen so easily”, he mumbled. The two other men at the table just gaped at them openmouthed, breakfast forgotten.

Sherlock smiled at the flushed face, bowing down, while his fingers caressed a tense neck.

“Could you please... stop...” the man stuttered.

But Sherlock only moved closer, until he'd brought his mouth to the man's ear, whispering: “Sorry, I thought you might be amenable to suck my cock. No offence.” He patted a hunched shoulder once, before turning and walking back to his table. He could hear cutlery clacking and a chair pushing back. When he'd reached his place and sat down again, the man had left the room.

The woman grinned at him mischievously.

“Wow! I'm not sure if he's left to vomit or wank.”

“Don't put images in my head!” Sherlock wiped his fingers excruciatingly on the tablecloth.

“Another coffee?” The woman offered.

“Yes, please.”

When she returned, she put a small cup in front of him, looking at his folded hands resting atop the table.

“What happened to your fingers?” She asked apprehensively.

“An accident.” Sherlock answered a bit too fast.

Her brow knitted. “You don't strike me the clumsy type.”

“How would you know?” He gulped his espresso down in one go. “Sorry, got to dash. Thanks for the coffee.” He smiled politely, rose, and hurriedly left, all the while feeling her eyes staring at the back of his head.

Back up in his room, Sherlock sat down at the small table by the window, got his phone out _(no new message from John. STOP IT! Stupid!)_ and started scrolling through the emails on his website. There had been some new inquiries in the last 24 hours. He needed a case! He'd already started to behave unreasonable. If he couldn't find something – anything – to occupy his mind with, this might end rather badly.  
One message read promising:  
_“Dear Mr. Holmes, I worked as a computer programmer at the London branch of a prominent online auctioneer, but was made redundant a few weeks ago due to some business restructuring. My job encompassed writing encryptions for payment devices. But as this is a highly sought after skill, I had no problem finding a new stint with a competitor, only to be headhunted by a third and, at least to me, unknown start up for twice the salary, based in Manchester. I took this offer, but instead of putting my talents to use, I'm sitting in an office taking help desk calls.  
My new employer told me not even to give in notice to my London executives, and I had to leave in a hurry, but now I'm merely twiddling my thumbs. Also, my new boss strikes me very odd, and I am used to all sorts of people, having worked some years in this business. I need your advice. Please get in touch. Yours Hall Pycroft”_

Interesting. Sherlock dialled the given mobile number.

“Mr. Pycroft? It's Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you'd like to meet for lunch?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------

As they were facing each other in the living room, both fell awkwardly silent for a moment. John watched Mycroft taking a look around. He remembered the last visit, not even three weeks ago. Back then, the flat had been in shambles, and Mycroft had openly threatened John, blackmailing him into a downright dangerous assignment. John knew he was very lucky to be still alive. He also knew that he probably wouldn't be, had it not been for his guest. But he was also aware that Mycroft Holmes would go to any length to protect his little brother; that, for him, Sherlock always came first. In John's present situation, that might not be entirely advantageous. John did not harbour any illusions; at the moment, he was but a tolerated presence in Sherlock's live – at least by Mycroft. He should call himself very fortunate to be allowed around Sherlock after supplying him with hard drugs. He wasn't sure what Mycroft would do should he found out that John had beaten his brother sore until he'd broken down sobbing.

“It looks … different.” Mycroft stated into the silence. Having recourse to platitudes was Mycroft's preferred conversational opening if he wanted to circumvent the subject under discussion to bide his time, thereby unnerving his opponent.

“Yes, we had some work done. There was a fire...”

Mycroft waved an impatient hand to silence him. “Yes, yes, I know about that.” He sounded totally blasé.

Sherlock's brother had started to wander around, picking up bits and pieces, examining them thoroughly, turning them towards the light, before putting them down again. With every other person, John would have thought of this behaviour as a sign of insecurity or anxiety. But Mycroft ‘the British government’ Holmes was a completely different kettle of fish.

John cleared his throat and decided to take the bull by its horns: “I was actually trying to get in touch with you.”

“Oh, really? To which exceptional circumstances do I owe the honour of your approach?”

“Have you seen Sherlock?” John inquired as casually as possible.

Mycroft turned and looked John in the face for the first time since his arrival. He took his time to reply, probably reading John's mind and body language first to ascertain the current state of affairs. For all John knew, he was an open book to Sherlock's brother – and that frightened him immensely.

Finally, Mycroft spoke: “Yes, John, I've seen him. That's why I'm here.”

John inwardly punched the air. So Mycroft knew where Sherlock was. Brilliant! But then he recognised the grave tone Mycroft had spoken in. Something was deeply wrong. Shit, no! Sherlock had been talking to him only a few hours previously. Surely he couldn't be...

“No, John, he's alive.” Mycroft's words appeased John's reeling mind a little, even if it worried him that the man seemed to be able to look right at the bottom of his soul – and what might be discovered there?

“Good, that's good!” John said with wholehearted relief. “So, where is he? Can you tell me?”

“According to credit card receipts and CCTV footage: Manchester.”

“Manchester!” John exclaimed astonished. “But he hates Manchester.”

“Not as much as he seems to hate your company, at least for the time being.” Mycroft retorted coldly.

John's heart sank. He might actually be in real trouble.

“I … listen … I've no idea how much you already know. We had a row. He left. Well, at least it seems like he did. He will not talk to me. Or, he just spoke to me a few hours ago, but then he said that I should stop...”  
Mycroft raised a perfectly manicured hand to silence John's ramblings.

“Please, do not impose your relationship problems unto me. That is absolutely not my area.”

“But what...” John was quieted again by a firm gesture.

“I am concerned because I've reason to believe that Sherlock is using again. I've seen some pictures of him, on which he's positively high.” Mycroft sounded gloomy, bitter, and gutted.

Now it was John's turn to put Sherlock's brother at ease.

“He told me he’d dropped some E last night, if that's any consolation to you.”

“That does not mean he did not score again. Perhaps he just wanted to spare you the grim details.”

“Believe me, he wouldn't.”

The two men shared a knowing look.

“John, did something happen between the two of you, after … your trip.”

John couldn't meet Mycroft's eye.

“I thought you don't want to know about our mundane domestics?”

“Well, if they concern my brother's health, I have no choice but to invest myself in your private dealings.” Mycroft – to his defence – sounded genuinely abhorred by the whole subject.

“We had a … fight. It got nasty. At least I think so. I cannot always tell with your brother.”

Mycroft snorted a laugh. “You tell me.”

Now both men shared a serene smile.

“Next morning, he was gone. No note, no message, he doesn't answer my calls. I … started to worry. Then we talked, this morning. He more or less finished with me.”

“Will you tell me what happened? I might be able to set the record straight, so to speak.” Mycroft asked obligingly. Could it be that he just wanted to help?

“Well, it got a bit … out of hand, you know? No, you probably wouldn't.”

“John, believe me, I've been round the block. And with my brother, there's nothing that can even remotely surprise me anymore.”

“We … Oh god, I can't talk to you about this.”

“Did your reaction involve violent behaviour towards him?”

“I … yes, I think so.” John felt flattened. He remembered Sherlock kneeling on the kitchen floor, coughing up bile. Suddenly, his face flushed hot with shame. But he also recalled his bright white fury breaking free; hitting Sherlock again and again had been a relief, a vent for his ire. The man made him so utterly furious sometimes. Had it not been for Sherlock – heedless, rude, self-assured, oblivious Sherlock - John would never have become a person of interest to Mycroft; he'd never been sent away on an ill-advised mission, ending up in a dark cellar with two cretins delighting themselves in taking turns to beat him up. He had felt so vulnerable, lost and helpless there. It was true, Sherlock had come to his rescue, but down in that dungeon, alone, facing in all probability a painful and violent death, John had come to believe that Sherlock, in all likelihood, would never love him the way he did love Sherlock. And this thought had been way more dreadful than anything his savage keepers could have done to him. 

In the end, Sherlock had been able to kill a man for him, but not to say he loved him. Not even after all these awful occurrences did Sherlock seem able to drop his cold and rational detachment for a second or two, and tell John what he so desperately needed to hear.

Could it be possible that Dr John Watson – a man who'd sworn to serve and protect – had wreaked his frustrations and fear fuelled disappointments on the man he loved – a man of whom he knew to resort to very unhealthy coping mechanisms?

John cringed, and had to sit down in his chair. He buried his head in his hands, and breathed deeply. He had to avoid a panic attack in front of Mycroft Holmes at all cost.

Sherlock's brother watched him, taking in the display of emotions crossing John’s face. When Mycroft finally spoke, he sounded almost gentle: “I know it can be very trying. Do not think I was never tempted to raise my hand against him. Worse, I actually used my position and influence to put him away – for his own good, but, of course, he won’t see it that way – and to intervene in his life when I found it necessary. He hates me for this. But it had to be done.”

John slowly shook his head.

“No, John, listen to me, hear me out. It might be different between the two of you. I seriously hope it is. But we all make mistakes. More so, if we are put under undue pressure. Living with my brother encompasses this condition on a permanent level. No one in his right mind would subject himself to it. I'm afraid it takes a highly intelligent but emotionally deprived stickler, or an adrenaline addicted PTSD-enduring ex-army doctor to cope with him.”

John leaned back in his chair and looked up at Sherlock's brother, who's eyes were shining bright, and two red spots bloomed high on his cheeks, all signs of the bonedeep embarrassment his speech had caused him. In this moment, and from John's point of view, the startling resemblance between the Holmes brothers was conspicuously showing.

“What I mean is: you’re doing exceptionally fine, John. Since you decided to become a constant in my brother's life, I at last feel able to step back a bit. Genesis 4.9 comes to mind, don't you think? I know it's perhaps unfair, to burden you with the responsibility to take care of him, but I wouldn't do it if I had not the utmost trust in you.”

John felt almost touched. Never had he expected Mycroft to talk to him like that. He swallowed, clenching his fists a few times.

“So, Manchester.” The sudden change of subject seemed to fill Mycroft with relief.

“Give him time. Don't push him.”

“Yes, of course, but if you anticipate a … relapse … I don't think I should wait too long.”

“Fair enough. I'll get you to him tomorrow.” 

A slow smile spread on John’s face.

“I'd never thought I might say that to you, but there’s a first time for everything: Thank you, Mycroft.”

“You're very welcome, John.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They met at the Corner House Cafe. Sherlock took his seat opposite a thin young man (black spectacles, black turtle neck, vintage Adidas shoulder bag, nerdy type) sipping nervously at a beaker of Chai tea while crumbling a sandwich to pieces on his plate without really eating it.

“Mr. Holmes?” The young man nearly jumped off his chair to greet Sherlock, reaching out a bony hand. Sherlock shook the slightly sweaty palm. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

“No problem, Mr. Pycroft. I was in town anyway. So, tell me, what's bothering you so much?”

Hall Pycroft started to unravel the story of his assignment to Manchester again, but Sherlock cut him short.

“I know all this from your email. But what exactly do you do?”

“Well, I write and maintain programmes that encrypt online payments.”

“A trusted position?”

“Very much so, I should think. One deviation in the logarithms can lead to massive data loss.”

“And you have access to sensible customer information?”

“Of course. Bank details, passwords, credit card numbers, you name it.”

“And you are in a position to … fiddle … with these accounts?”

Pycroft's eyes narrowed. “I could do that, yes, if I was so inclined...”

“Don't get me wrong, Mr. Pycroft, I'm not insinuating anything.” The young man nodded slowly.

“And in your actual position, you do … what?”

“Mostly I sit around in a tiny cubicle and take calls from angry customers, complaining about delivery delays and the poor quality of the purchased goods.”

“And you perceive yourself overqualified for this job?”

Pycroft sighed. “Totally. Any student or housewife could do it.”

“What about your last employer in London?”

“What about them?”

“You did not hand in a written resignation?”

“No, as I did not even start the job.”

“Did you go to an interview?”

“No, I just send my CV, got an email in reply, then a call offering me to start on the first.”

“So, no one met you face to face, and the company is not even aware that there is no Hall Pycroft working for them now?” Sherlock sounded serious.

“Oh, fuck!” Pycroft exclaimed, as it dawned on him what Sherlock was getting at.

“So, there might actually be an imposter, who has access to relevant payment details of, say, one million customers?”

“At least.” Pycroft replied weakly.

“I think I'll have some inquiries to make, but perhaps, if we send a warning to the company now, it might not be too late.”

As it turned out, there was indeed a man with the name of Hall Pycroft working at the London headquarters of the prominent online retailer. A quickly performed search of his computer hard drive by the company's security revealed that the double had hacked accounts of at least 100 000 clients, carelessly and stupidly saving them on an USB device. The executives were splendidly grateful for Sherlock's tip off, and even more so as he agreed to keep official bodies and the public out of it. His discreet confidentiality was quite generously rewarded.

So, at least his financial problems had been sorted, Sherlock mused, as the lift took him up to his hotel room in the late afternoon. If that could only be said of his personal ones as well.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Mycroft had left, John needed a drink. There was still the almost untouched bottle of Macallan in the kitchen, and John took a generous swig form it.

He couldn't stop playing his conversation with Sherlock's brother back and forth in his head. Could he really be trusted? Or was Mycroft just playing one of his games with him, fucking his mind, lulling him in a false sense of security, before striking unexpectedly?

At least, he knew where to find Sherlock. Mycroft had promised to text him the details later in the evening. He'll go up to Manchester in the morning. And then they'd talk. At least John hoped they would. But one never knew with Sherlock.

Perhaps he would refuse to listen – or to speak? John knew that Sherlock could be very persistent if he had set his mind.

Or perhaps he would be so off his face that conversation was impossible? John had witnessed Sherlock drugged to his eyeballs before; it was ugly and messy and almost everytime both of them had said things they'd regretted later.

But perhaps, just perhaps, he had a case on, and there would be shouting and running, and a bit of fighting, and danger, and they would end up celebrating solving it in an expensive Chinese restaurant, their eyes meeting over steaming plates of spicy food, and they would just look at each other, knowing they belonged together and fitted perfectly, and there would be no need to talk, just a mutual understanding, sealed passionately in bed later at night.

John very much wished for the last scenario to happen. But, as he was a reasonable person, he also very much doubted it.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride…

He took another sip of whisky.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock had treated himself to a hot shower, and now stood at the window of his hotel room, glancing out at the dark bustling city beneath, only a towel wrapped around his waist, smoking with relish (he'd also treated himself to some fags. He'd solved a case today, for god’s sake! He was entitled to some gratification. And if John wasn't there to provide it, other means had to do.)

He knew he should probably be tired, but the case had had a somehow stimulating effect on him, and he actually entertained the notion of celebrating proving his superior mental vigour yet again with a decent meal. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Could it have been that dreadful evening back at Baker Street … how long ago? 48 hours? Only 48 hours?

He ordered himself to stop thinking about it. What good could possibly come from dwelling on the humiliating and painful experience? Pathetic!

He should instead savour today's success. Swear to god, he would, even if he had to force himself to do so!

So he got dressed in his freshly cleaned slim black suit, and went down to the foyer.

His plan had been to go out and find an obtrusively expensive restaurant, but on his way towards the revolving doors he spotted a familiar face at the hotel bar.

“Hello, stranger.” The women he’d met in the breakfast room greeted him by raising her cocktail glass. She still wore her navy suit, but the spectacles had gone. As it was quite early, the bar was almost empty, except for two men around her age, sitting at a low table, having a pint, while now and then throwing unmistakeable glances at the lonely figure perched at the counter, enjoying a dry Martini.

“Mind if I join you?” Sherlock asked, and she shook her head and patted on the free stool next to her. The two men eyed him with open envy for a second, then turned around and carried on their conversation.  
Sherlock sat down and ordered a Brandy.

“Gillian. My friends call me Gilly.” She offered her hand. Her shake was firm.

“Sherlock Holmes. I don't have that many friends.”

She smiled, showing a little gap between her front teeth Sherlock hadn't recognised before.

“I wonder why.” She neatly impaled an olive and sucked it off the cocktail stick with a slightly obscene smacking sound. The two men in their corner continued to watch them through their reflections in the darkened windows. “And these chosen few, how do they call you?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Circumstances.”

“I see.”

“Mostly Sherlock.” He confessed, smiling down in his snifter. “Sometimes … it gets more graphic.”

Gillian regarded him seriously.

“You look sad, you know? Everything allright?” Now it was not Janine or Irene she reminded him of, but an apprehensive pathologist named Molly Hooper, who, in another life ago, had said much the same to him in a reluctant, pitying tone. She had been talking about John...

**_STOP IT! RIGHT NOW!_ **

Sherlock just shrugged.

“Dinner?” he offered.

Gillian still looked at him slightly worried, irritated by his sudden change of subject, but then she seemed to decide to brush her concerns aside – they didn't know each other, after all, they had barely met this morning – and went back to sassy larking about.

“I'd thought you'd never asked. Chinese?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Actually, I'd prefer something else. There's a nice French place in the northern quarter, if that's ok with you?”

They chinked glasses.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Gillian smiled at him and touched his hand, and as she slid from her seat, her skirt rode up a fraction, exposing the top of a suspended black stocking. A glass crashed at the nearby table, but Sherlock just offered her his arm, not for the first time wondering how easily most people could be manipulated and compromised by their plain and ordinary desires.

The evening turned out quite pleasant. They successfully circumvented talking about anything personal. Gillian was impressed when he deduced her occupation (she actually was a gas trader with a big Norwegian company), and from there on, their conversation circled around his occupation. He told her about some of his more interesting cases, and when he discovered that she did not belong to the faint hearted, he allowed himself to reveal one or two of the gory details that did not made it on John's blog, due to his overcautious sense for decency. Gillian asked some intelligent questions in return, and proved totally not boring, and a bit reluctantly Sherlock had to admit that he somehow enjoyed her company.

During the course of their excellent meal, they emptied three bottles of fine Chardonnay, so they were more than a little bit tipsy when they left the restaurant, looking for a cab. Gillian turned out to be a smoker, too, so when they huddled together in a doorway to light up, their hands brushed, and they looked at one another, before starting to giggle.

“You know what?” Gillian asked, chuckling helplessly.

“What?”

“If we were normal, we would kiss now.” She was unable to suppress a cackle. “Sorry.”

Sherlock watched her, bewildered. “What do you mean, normal?”

“Oh, you know, not queer or gay or whatever you prefer to call yourself.”

Sherlock thought about that while he followed her down the street.

In the end, they did not take a cab, because it wasn't that far back to the hotel, and the evening was dry and not too cold (you had to make concessions up north). Instead, they walked, smoking, laughing, talking.  
When they reached the Malmaison, Gillian just said good night to him and went up in the lift; Sherlock sensed a few guests registering with blatant schadenfreude that the woman had left him standing alone in the foyer. But instead of turning in, Sherlock went over to the bar, ordering one last drink as a kind of nightcap.

Sherlock wasn't really used to consuming that much alcohol, normally preferring substances that didn't slow him down and made him feel dizzy, but out of some reasons he couldn't quite fathom, wine and spirits were socially much more accepted than, say, cocaine or ecstasy, despite proofing way more lethal and addictive than substances currently defined as class A and B drugs.

The evening hadn't so far offered an opportunity to acquire anything at least a bit hallucinogenic, and, as Sherlock was unfamiliar with the local scene, he thought it best to inquire somewhere he could be sure to be served with the kind of products he desired.

The barman, who had somewhat red-rimmed eyes and twitchy fingers, looked like his best bet. After ordering another Brandy, Sherlock leaned over casually, and politely inquired if he could also get him something stronger, while passing a folded 20 pound note over.

The Bartender looked him up and down, then just nodded and went over to the far side of the bar, making a phone call on his mobile.

Ten minutes later, a cab arrived, and a young man came into the bar, ordering a pint before making his way to the gents.

After a moment, Sherlock followed. The man waited for him in an open cubicle. Sherlock stepped in and shut the door behind himself.

“You want some coke? Rock or powder?”

“Powder.”

“That's 75 quid, mate.”

It was obvious that Sherlock was charged the green tourist price, but at the moment he didn't give a toss. He just hoped that he did not spend his money on baking powder infused with rat poison.

He handed over the notes, receiving a small white folded piece of paper in return. Sherlock opened it and dipped his little finger in it, tasting with the tip of his tongue, and was relieved to discover that he'd gotten proper stuff. It always paid off residing in a five star hotel.

When the transaction was completed, the pusher left first; Sherlock waited nearly five minutes before he exited the toilet. As he had finished his drink, he just went up to his room, bolting the door before looking for a suitable clean surface. 

He decided on the low glass table in front of the sofa. As he opened the little packet and scattered some cocaine onto the tabletop, he registered that it was a very fine powder, with no chunks in it, and therefore real high quality. Nevertheless, he chipped it a bit – mostly out of habit – before dividing it into three rather fat lines with the help of his credit card (so very useful on various occasions). Then, he rolled up a fifty pound note, and snorted the first in one go. Leaning back against the couch, he got out his cigarettes and lit one, only then remembering that the room lacked an ashtray. _'Fuck the smoking ban'_ , he thought, as he scrambled to his feet and took a saucer from next to the kettle. With that in hand, he wandered over to the window, looking out into the night, waiting for the hit.  
_“If we were normal...”_ Gillian had said earlier. Well, Sherlock had never perceived himself as normal, nor had he aspired to be it. Of course, there had been times during his adolescence, when he had sometimes wished to fit in. But these days of insecurity were long past; today, he even cultivated his otherness, was proud to be different, because most of the time that meant he was better than the rest.

Only recently had he begun to wonder, had questioned his attitude, because: was he really so much better than John, who could love him and tell him so, who could calm him and overwhelm him and comfort him, despite being quite normal (well, without being dull, obviously)? By outside parties, John was always judged as the decent one, the normal one, the nice one. Most people even regarded him as ordinary (well, most people were idiots, but nevertheless...).

People generally liked John.

Only very few people liked Sherlock. Some respected him, some feared him, many needed him, but despised him nonetheless. And that was good, wasn’t it, because it kept them away from him? No reason to invest himself in their little mediocre lives, care about their sorrows, or consider their feelings.

But then one person had told him he loved him.

And that had been terrifying, because it had clearly demanded a reaction, an emotional investment on Sherlock's part, which would have required him to change, to open up, to trust, to let go – to care. Only thinking about it fuelled desperate trepidations … fears of becoming ordinary, just a common, boring, average human being, craving affection, needing someone by his side.

God! It was sickening!

Luckily, he had figured it out early enough to call it off, because John had started to behave like anyone else who ever took advantage of him. He'd said he loved him, but that had just been a euphemism for wanting to own him, and then to change him, to train him, an excuse to control him. But Sherlock would never be tamed, he couldn't stand being confined (he very vividly remembered Mycroft's attempt at it, and himself slashing out against it, with almost disastrous consequences for them both), and being chained to a person that mattered surely would do that to him.

He should be glad that John had revealed his ruthless side before it had been too late. This should make things so much easier.

So, why did he still cling?

He felt his senses sharpening as the drug spread through his body, blocking his dopamine transporter protein, whereby dopamine accumulated in his synaptic cleft. Knowing exactly what was happening to his brain had never lowered the pleasure he took from consuming cocaine.

He suddenly knew that he had to purge the embarrassingly sentimental notions from his mind. Drugs were one way to achieve this. But Sherlock was fully aware of their long time effects, and did not fancy ending up as a paranoid junky suffering from hallucinations and arrhythmias. As much as he liked them as a short term relief, using them as a long term solution was out of the question if he cherished his cogitation and wanted to keep it intact and functioning.

He also knew that the other effective trigger helping him to focus and clear his mind was pain.

He looked down on his still lacerated hand, and flexed his fingers a few times in anticipation.

Then he shed his jacket and rolled up his left sleeve.

He’d finished his cigarette and lit another one, smoking while examining the delicate skin at the inside of his forearm.

Despite the numbing effect of the cocaine, he distinctly felt the sharp burning pain as he pressed the hot glowing tip of his fag onto a spot just below the crook of his arm. If he would have done that too low down, near his wrist, it might show beneath his cufflinks; he knew from experience that this could lead to rather awkward and embarrassing discussions, and therefore had to be avoided.

After his third cigarette, he had to stop and snort another line. He also went over to the bathroom and got himself a glass of water. It wouldn’t do him any good to pass out with a lit cigarette between his fingers.  
He then lost track of the time. Occasionally, he was forced to pause, because the pain got too intense, or his mouth felt dry because of the chain smoking, and he had to sip some water. The air smelled of sweat, stale smoke, and just a hint of burned flesh. 

By the time he rewarded himself with the last line, his lower arm and inner elbow were decorated with a random pattern of small round wounds, slightly charred at the rims, surrounded by rosy pink swelling, the skin deep red at the centre. The latest burns were still dry, but the earlier ones had by now started to secret capillary fluids, coating the marks with an orange scab. They would hurt with every touch for at least a few days. Sherlock imagined the fabric of his shirt brushing against them with every move, reminding him of his despicable deficiency.

The treatment eventually brought the desired effect: his drugged brain was solely focusing on the excruciating damage he was inflicting upon his vulnerable and decrepit body, his mind diverted, all his thoughts narrowing until he was only aware of the sharp pain, pushing everything else to the periphery of his perception, until it finally collapsed, leaving him blank and wiped, blissfully cut off from his sodding emotions, feeling clean and pure again, able to abandon his sordid carnal longings and to leave his maudlin feelings behind for good.

Oblivion!

He was wired.

His mind ruled his body.

He could endure this.

The pain was his reward.

He deserved this.

He would suffer, and then he would be free.

He remembered Moriarty threatening to burn the heart out of him. Well, he needed no help with that, thank you very much. 

He dissolved into hysterical giggles, while he pressed the only cigarette left one last time against his soft white skin, his sniggering dissolving into a low hiss as he prolonged the burning until he’d stabbed out the fag, watching the bud sink into his flesh, unflinchingly reciting the latin names of the layers he violated: “Stratum corneum, Stratum lucidum, Stratum granulosum, Stratum spinosum, Stratum basale, Stratum papillare, Stratum reticulare.” 

He only stopped when he reached the Subcutis.

If you’ve got nothing left to burn, you should set yourself on fire.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Afterwards, he couldn’t look at what he’d done.

There were days when he blatantly hated himself.

He wouldn't sleep this night either, avoiding impending dreams and useless pondering. The come-down was always the hardest part.

He just stood by the window and watched the sun come up above the quirky spires of the bleak industrial city, his abused left arm hanging by his side, wondering how on earth he was supposed to get through this new and presumably frightfully uneventful day.


	33. Too much poison come undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally meet again, but it's not easy for both of them. Fixing this will take some time, if it's to be fixed at all. But just as things begin to look promising, Sherlock's ... peculiar behaviour ... threatens to undermine everything.   
> Full of angst, silence and misunderstanding - the essential ingredients for ill-advised communication.

_Sucker love is known to swing_   
_Prone to cling and waste these things_   
_Pucker up for heaven sake_   
_There's never been so much at stake_   
**\- Placebo -**

 

As sleep is for the weak, Sherlock didn’t allow his body to succumb to it. While watching the sun rise over the sooty brick-red spires of Manchester, he'd decided he's done here. His depths were settled. 

So, he could go … home?

That would mean facing John.

That would require making a decision he's not ready for just yet.

But he can't stay here either.

The city is too distracting, with all its alluring vices on offer, seducing Sherlock way too easily.

As much as he had needed this deflection, now it threatens to block a necessary process of clarification, pulling Sherlock inexorably into that unfortunately quite familiar abysmal cycle of sex and drugs, quickly spiralling down to getting high to forget the sex, leaving him bereft of the last shreds of his dignity, giving in to self-pity before falling back onto the only coping mechanism left to him … hurting himself until even that can't keep his self-loath at bay.

He had hoped for a clearer state of mind afterwards, enabling a fresh start, but all he experiences now is just exhaustion and a vague sense of shame.

So he packs up the few things he'd brought with him and checks out by seven, catching the first train leaving Manchester that won't take him back to London.

He's not ready, and at the moment, he doubts he'll ever be in the foreseeable future – and also extremely unsure how long that might even be.

\--------------------------------------------

Mycroft had kept his word, so John knew now that Sherlock had been staying at a Manchester Hotel these past days. He'd tried to sleep at least a bit that night, but only managed to doze off in his chair for a few hours – after calming himself with the rest of the Macallen – and was therefore able to catch the first train at 5:51, reaching Manchester shortly after 8:30.

The two and a half hours train ride were pure torture. John played the conversation he was planning to have back and forth in his mind, anticipating Sherlock's answers and reactions as best as he could, but reaching a dead end ever so often. It dawned on him that he really had no idea what was going on in Sherlock's head – especially in connection with anything that could be described as … sentimental responses. How did Sherlock actually feel? And what did he feel for John? What did he expect from their relationship? Would he even call it that? Did he have a concept, a parameter, a blueprint of what he wanted and needed and would offer in return? Being that clueless regarding the emotional state of the man he'd been passionately engaging with the last few months – and John did not reduce their association to base fucking – was a shocking revelation.

So, when he finally arrived at his destination, he couldn’t bring himself to face Sherlock – scathing, poisonous, acerbic Sherlock – straight on, but instead headed for a greasy spoon in the station's vicinity to get some breakfast first. The chips were soggy, the eggs tasted rank, but the tea was strong and sweet, so John washed everything down with it, sure he'll need the provision.

When he eventually mustered the mental strength to approach the hotel reception, it was nearly 10 o'clock.

“I'm looking for a Mr Sherlock Holmes. I was told he's staying with you.”

“I'm afraid not, Sir.” The smooth receptionist answered politely, but with professional reserve.

That left John taken aback for a minute. If there's one constant in his universe, than it's that Mycroft Holmes was never wrong. This just did not happen.

“Perhaps he's been using another name?” John had to ask, feeling himself blush; he knew he sounded desperate, like some barmy conspiracist, and the look of pity mixed with endurance this inquiry got him made John cringe inwardly with dismay and embarrassment. But he had no choice; he had to know. So he continued: “He's a tall, thin man, with black hair … at least that's how he usually looks, he has a tendency to disguise himself...”

The receptionist mercifully cut John short. “No … Sir … a gentleman with this name has been residing with is for a couple of days, but I'm afraid he'd checked out.”

“When?” John nearly jumped the man, who in response felt the need to retreat further behind the dark polished wooden counter to keep this obviously maniac customer at bay. John couldn't care less.

“This morning. You just missed him.” The receptionist was clearly trying to calm the nearly frantic man in front of him by sounding assuring and a bit too forthcoming.

“When precisely?” John growled. This was _Captain Watson_ pulling rank while glaring intently, until his opponent started to press some keys on his computer. As the data he was looking for flickered onto his screen he stated: “7:08 am”, clearly hoping that providing exact information would satisfy and appease his interrogator.

Without another word, John stormed off, not bothering leaving a confused hotel clerk behind, who just shook his head at the often strange and sometimes tiring encounters that came with his job.

Back out in the street, John's head was spinning. He needed some air – but all that was on offer was a small patch of shrubbery rather euphemistically called Piccadilly Gardens, squeezed between tram stations – but this would have to do.

John slumped down onto a bench, the grim misery he emanated being enough to drive the resident boozer away; even a bin diver took a wide berth.

John's mind had gone blank. All his thoughts had been directed at his upcoming confrontation with Sherlock, and now, as this wasn’t going to happen - because he was too _fucking_ late, because he took his _fucking_ time, because he _fucking_ listened to _fucking_ Mycroft Holmes to _fucking_ not rush it with his mental, unstable, lunatic and _fucking_ gorgeous brother - he has absolutely no idea what to do.

So John just sits on his bench on this drab square of muddy grass for a long time; a light drizzle started to fall, but at first he didn’t realise, and when he did, it doesn’t matter; he does not care.

Taking out his mobile and pinching in the number feels like defeat.

“He's gone”, is all he can say when Mycroft answers after the second ring.

“When?” Sherlock's brother inquires in a non-committal voice.

“Seven this morning.”

“Give me five minutes, I'll be in touch.”

When other people say five minutes, they mean any short time span. But with a Holmes, you can take it verbatim.

John's phone chimes after three minutes sharp.

“He's taken a train to Scarborough. I'm still working on the CCTV there. Bit foggy, actually.”

“Well, doesn't that come with this line of work?”

“No, John, I'm actually talking about the weather.” Mycroft sounds tired and exasperated, not bothering to hide behind his detached façade any longer when it comes to John and his brother, apparently. “Have you never been up to the northern coast? The climate is splendid to toughen oneself up.”

No, John hadn't. He'd spent every summer in a caravan, staying in a holiday park near Lyme Regis, treating himself to Flake ice-cream and pebble throwing the first years, before snogging girls under the pier when he was a bit older. Venerable misty seaside towns weren't his idea of a nice little break at all.

Mycroft takes his silence for an answer, and just continues: “I'll text you as soon as I have more information regarding my brother's whereabouts. Now, would you please excuse me? I've got a country to run while preventing an elected government to intervene.” With that, the line goes dead.

John heads back toward Piccadilly station, to board a train to Scarborough.

\--------------------------------

Upon arriving in the desolate, grey seaside town, Sherlock had immediately wandered down to the beach, passing through a somewhat derelict and faceless high street, sporting cheap and awful shops selling cheap and awful things. The few people who hung around matched their cheerless and dreary surroundings, looking washed out and tired.

Perhaps it was nicer when it didn’t pour down? It had to be, otherwise Sherlock couldn't fathom why anyone but the definitely suicidal would come up here.

But as the rain finally stopped, it was only to be replaced by a thick wet mist drawing in from the sea, reducing the range of visibility to about 15 yards, but thus graciously hiding the hideously painted fronts of boarded-up amusement arcades and closed bingo halls lining the promenade, the colours pealing in the salty air, the brick work crumbling. Only the distinctly reeking smell of fried fish and the thundering surf reminded Sherlock that he was in fact by the sea. His dark curls were soaked by now, clinging to his skull, small rivulets of bitingly cold water seeping beneath his collar.

But nevertheless, he continued to walk along the seafront until a few well-trodden concrete steps led down onto the sand. The tide was coming in, and because of the horrible weather, only very few people were about, walking their dogs with hats pulled down and scarfs wrapped tightly around their necks. No one took any notice of Sherlock. The still magnificent silhouette of the once luxurious Grand Hotel was only vaguely perceptible today, a big dark shadow looming over the deserted beach.

After rounding the base of a cliff, and leaving the small town finally behind, Sherlock reached a desolate stretch of slushy sand littered with washed up kelp, carelessly discarded plastic bags, rusty cans and the skeletal remnants of a shopping trolley half immersed into the sleech.

His shoes were soaked by now, and he'd started to shiver in the stiff breeze despite his Belstaff; even turning up his collar and burying his hands in his deep pockets didn't help against the damp cold creeping up his body, chilling him to the bone.

He had no idea where he was heading to. As a child, he'd once spent his summer holidays with an elderly spinster aunt near Whitby, who had let him be and ramble the ruins and beaches as he'd liked, never asking where he'd been or what he'd been up to. Since this time, he'd secretly associated the sea with peace and freedom _(god, he was such a sentimental twat sometimes)_ , so perhaps that was why he'd felt the urge to come here, exposing himself to the raging elements, a salty breeze blowing relentlessly until his eyes started to prickle and his whole body felt gloriously numb.

Eventually, Sherlock had to take shelter in the wake of some big rocks that had tumbled down onto the bay from the top of the grey crags rising behind him. The fog had cleared a bit as the wind had freshened, so he was now able to see the waves rolling steadily, the dark icy water continuously crashing onto the sand, the gushing sound drowning out everything despite the squeals of some seagulls circling in the slate grey sky. It was kind of mesmerising, and Sherlock watched hypnotised while crouching down, not caring if his clothes started to wet through, blissfully relishing being reduced to a fragile shivering heap of skin and bone in the face of the magnificently wide and utterly ruthless ocean.

He suddenly felt so very tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept at least five hours straight. His arm hurt like hell; the untreated burns, rubbing constantly against the fabric of his shirt, would become inflamed and start to fester eventually. But somehow all of this didn't matter anymore. He'd finally come to his journey's end on this bleak and isolated shore, and now was the time to make up his mind and decide … well, how to proceed regarding his connection with John, i.e. how (or if) to continue his previous, of late even quite complacent existence.

Sherlock took out his phone to scroll through John's messages and listen to his voicemails – at least as good as the strong breeze howling in his ears permitted– and, switching his mobile on, gratefully discovered that he had no coverage. So he'll be able to take all the time he needed to come to a conclusion, without fearing any unwelcome interruption.

He started to read.

\------------------------------------------------------

Scarborough reminded John of the Marty Feldman Quote _“It could be worse, it could be raining”_ , in the sense that it _was_ raining, and he had a hard time imagining anything worse than this.  
Mycroft eventually had called him on the train, which had stopped literally at every haystack it went past, to inform him that they had traced Sherlock's steps via CCTV down to the shoreline, trailing southwards, before losing him due to lack of cameras (Mycroft had sounded indignant at that. Scarborough City Council was surely about to receive a massive bollocking from the Home Office). As his mobile was switched off, the signal couldn't be tracked.

So John was left to follow in Sherlock’s footsteps, strolling along the beach, insufficiently dressed for this climate and weather. He hunched his shoulders against the icy wind as he wandered by the waterside, his feet getting damp while his shoes filled with clammy sand, until he felt soggy and wet all over.

Why on earth had Sherlock come to this sodding, godforsaken, miserable place?

By the time he left the town behind, John longed for a hot tea and dry clothes, preferably in front of a blazing fire.

At least the fog had lifted, so he was eventually able to spot a crouched figure wearing black cradling beneath some rocks. He didn't look up until John stood right in front of him – probably due to the noise of the crashing breakers, probably because he was concentrating intensely on the screen of the phone in his red and chapped fingers – but as John's frame threw a shadow onto him, Sherlock lifted his head and met John's gaze with one of his inscrutable looks.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock sounded not the least bit surprised to meet John on a deserted beach on the Yorkshire coast. Instead, his otherwise often crisp and sharp voice came over dispassionately and actually a little bit jaded.

“Sherlock...!” John reached down to cup his shaking hands with his own ice-cold fingers. “What the hell... You are freezing. You'll catch your death out here. Come on, let's go back and find somewhere warm.”

He pulled Sherlock up by his wrists, taking in his rosy cheeks and tousled hair, but what should have looked rather attractive was diminished by nearly blue trembling lips and audibly chattering teeth.

“Come here.” John urged, pulling Sherlock along by his arm, nudging him gently but firmly back in the direction of the town, slinging his stuffed dufflebag over one shoulder. The tide was high by now and the strip of sand to walk on had become narrow; at some parts waves nipped at their feet, drenching shoes and trousers thoroughly.

Both men were by now too exhausted from the squally wind and cold to talk, so Sherlock just let John drag him along without putting up any resistance, until they spotted a cluster of houses, one of them luckily a pub also offering bed and breakfast.

John for once didn't care about the expenses, just got his card out and took a double room for them both, asking for a fire to be lit and two hot toddies served at the bar. The landlord looked at them askance and shook his head at the folly of these two obviously ill-prepared Londoners, not being the first to underestimate the forces of nature up here, and it said a lot about Sherlock's wrung out state of body and mind that he didn’t make a strident remark or delivered an unwelcome deduction (like an attributed leather fetish, or the kitchen using horse meat as a cheap replacement for beef) as a revengeful response to the man’s unmissable scornfulness.

Instead, he let John guide him towards a battered armchair next to an old-fashioned heater, covered in so many layers of white paint that the original delicately chased flowery ornaments decorating its ribs now seemed like blunt lug-worms (to stay in the maritime context), but it had been turned up as far as it would go, and thus radiated much appreciated warmth despite three inches of varnish.

John had felt literally deep-frozen, but warmed up quickly when sipping the hot sweet whisky, whereas Sherlock, still wrapped tightly in his coat, continued to shiver, despite clutching his mug with both hands and nearly folding himself around the radiator. He always looked pale, but now he was white as a sheet, with eyes too bright, and John feared he might be coming down with something. They still didn’t talk – the landlord regarding them suspiciously from behind the bar, unsure what to make of these odd strangers; Sherlock just stared out of the panorama window opposite, overlooking the lonely windswept shore, and John watched him from the corner of his eye while pretending to gaze down into his drink.

Finally, the landlord's wife told them their room was ready, and Sherlock stalked up the stairs first, gripping the banister tightly, as John collected the key and steadfastly ignored the derogatory smile on the owner's face. If he hadn’t been that whacked he'd asked him if there was a problem - squaring his shoulders to signal unmistakeably that he would very much appreciate it if the man could mind his own business - but right now John had other things on his mind, so he swallowed all prickly comments and just climbed up the stairs, where he found Sherlock waiting on the corridor, leaning against the wall next to their door.

The room was small, with two separate beds (despite John's request for a double) covered with worn chintz duvets embroidered with peacocks (why on earth?), and the drawn red velvet curtains, the dark crimson walls and the slightly stained brown carpet made from rough synthetic felt added to the claustrophobic atmosphere, something John thought was not very helpful at all.

But there was a crackling fire burning in the tiny fireplace, and Sherlock sank down into one of the soft armchairs in front of it, sighing contently, but did still not remove his damp coat. John kept standing, clasping his hands behind his back, manning up for a conversation he dreaded but couldn’t avoid any longer.

“Sherlock?”

His head leaning against the back of the chair, his eyes closed, Sherlock just hummed in response.

“Can we talk?”

“Do we have to?” He still didn’t open his eyes.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Fine. Talk.” He sounded aloof and slightly bored, even waved a dismissive hand in John's direction, who was stunned at such a display of – obviously feigned – indifference. He reminded himself to stay calm; provoking him into outbursts of anger was one of Sherlock's preferred distraction tactics if he wanted to avoid an unpleasant subject. So John inhaled deeply and continued placidly: “Why did you leave?”

“That's not talking, that's barraging me with questions. Please, John, first make up your mind what you are up to, then frame your requests accordingly, before you inflict tedious queries upon me to which you already know the answers.” Sherlock had finally turned his head and was fixing John form dark blazing eyes, thus betraying the coldness of his words.

“Sherlock, stop this.”

“Or what? Will you beat me up again? Tie me down to one of these abhorrent beds and hit me with your belt until I promise to be good? Or perhaps the missus can borrow you her carpet beater. In a sordid place like this, I'm sure they'll be of service.” Sherlock hissed, a jaundiced smirk on his face.

John stared at him for a moment. Then he slumped down on one of the beds, resting his head in his hands, his eyes still on Sherlock, who had turned away and was now looking into the flames, his mouth a sharp thin line.

“Can we please stop this?” John let his weariness resonate in his tone.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock snapped back acerbic. “If you are talking about our … liaison … I think I made it quite clear that – at least on my part – we are finished. So, if there's nothing else, you can stop embarrassing yourself now, and leave me in peace while your confidence and virility are still unimpaired. Mind, I can't guarantee for that if you continue to annoy me with repeatedly futile attempts to preposterous navel-gazing.”

John shook his head, a sad and tired smile on his face. “I know what you are trying to do, but this won't work, not this time.”

Sherlock huffed sceptically.

“You want to irritate me until I start picking a fight with you. But I won't. I know I'm no match for you when it comes to arguing. You'll outlive god to have the last word. So, when I get mad at you, you'll just harp on and on until I snap and act like a total dick, because then you can feel superior and rightfully hurt. But I'm not playing your little games any more, Sherlock.”

“As if that's up to you to decide.” Sherlock sneered, an ugly little laugh escaping his mouth. John clenched his fists and counted backwards from ten before he went on: “I made a mistake. I am truly sorry. I totally lost it. There's no excuse for what I've done to you.”

“Then stop bothering!” Sherlock suddenly shouted, facing John again, and the flames threw dancing shadows on his angular features, making him look slightly mephistophelian.

“No, I won't. Because I want this to work. I know this can work.”

Sherlock, despite his exhaustion, was up on his feet in an instant, taking two steps towards John, towering over him, spiting in a caustic tone: “Well, I wouldn't be too sure about this!” He glared down at John like a gaunt bird of prey, but his threatening pose was suddenly impaired as his vision blurred and his body started to sway. He felt like fainting. The abrupt movement, combined with lack of sleep, hypothermia, cocaine withdrawal, and the intake of alcohol on an empty stomach seemed to finally take its toll.

John – being actually a quite observant person, despite Sherlock ever so often pointing out the opposite - realised what was about to happen, and quickly grabbed Sherlock’s arm to prevent him from toppling over, carefully lowering him onto the other bed, as Sherlock winced and tried to extract his arm from John’s grip.

‘Stupid git! You’d rather crash face down onto the floor than accept some help!’ John thought, but instead of addressing Sherlock’s notoriously exaggerated sense of pride as totally misplaced in these circumstances, he exclaimed: “Jesus, Sherlock. What’s the last time you’ve eaten?”, switching instantly into Doctor Watson mode.

“Last night, actually. Let go of me!” With that, Sherlock forcefully unwound his arm from John’s hand. He couldn’t allow John to touch him. But as he jerked back and out of John’s reach, the room started spinning, and Sherlock felt sick and on the brink of blacking out again. “Please…” He whispered in a rough and broken voice, and then had to close his eyes, swallowing audibly.

John looked him over wearily. “Come on, Sherlock, let’s get you out of your soggy clothes.” He sounded kind and gentle, and Sherlock felt the sudden urge to give himself over to John’s experienced care and steady hands, before remembering what those hands had done to him the last time he had allowed them to come into contact with his body, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

Nonetheless, Sherlock was unable to resist John as he pushed the Belstaff off his shoulders, before helping him to lie down onto the duvet. His head started pounding violently as John pressed the back of his cool fingers against his brow, feeling his temperature.

“You are burning.” He declared, sounding apprehensive. His fingers moved to Sherlock’s wrists, feeling for his pulse. It raced. John took the duvet from the second bed and draped it over Sherlock’s quivering body.

“I’ll just pop downstairs to get you some Paracetamol. Back in a flash.” He tried for a reassuring smile, but his worries were clearly showing.

Sherlock turned towards the wall and curled himself up into a foetal position as he heard the door close. Shutting his eyes, he felt glad and even a bit proud that he had been so anticipatory as not to burn his arms down to his carpus.

\----------------------------------------------------

The proprietor had regarded John is if he’d been asking for crack cocaine (he clearly envisaged John and Sherlock acting out some kind of juicy gay orgy upstairs, even John could deduce that much), but eventually went over to his medicine cupboard, and, after some rummaging through a slightly dated first aid kit, came back with a packet of Co-Codamol.  
 _Shit!_

“Don’t you just have ordinary Paracetamol?”

“Does this place look like a bloody pharmacy to you, son? Take it or leave it.” It was obvious that he regarded John both as overbearing and ungrateful.

John contemplated explaining that a codeine infused painkiller wasn’t exactly the best thing to give to a (recovering) drug addict, but decided against it. No need to discredit them any further in the eyes of their landlord. So he just took the pills – realising with relieve that they were the lowest dose possible (8/500) – thanked the man, and ran back upstairs, taking two steps at a time on the narrow staircase to avoid the contemptuous glances that surely followed him.

Sherlock lay curled up under the covers, his back to the door.

“Budge up.” John nudged at his folded thighs as he lowered himself onto the bed. “I’ve got a real treat for you. But just because we’re on holiday. Don’t you think you’ll get stuff like this all the time when we return home.”

He shoved two tablets into Sherlock’s shaky palm, who raised an eyebrow as he noticed what he had been given, before swallowing them dry.

“You do spoil me.” He murmured throatily.

“Always.” John smiled.

“Don’t put yourself out.”

“Never mind. The landlord surely thinks us some poncy London shirtlifters anyway. Right now, he’s probably imagining me shoving these pills up your arse.”

“That would be a rather interesting method of intake. But as the intestinal mucosa is in fact capable of absorbing soluble substances, it wouldn’t be entirely improbable.”

“I see.”

“Even if it might take longer than when orally administered.”

Was there a hint of innuendo?

“Kicking in, are they?”

“Seems like.” Sherlock sighed appreciatively while stretching out under the sheets, literally writhing.

“Come on, get up then. Let's get you out of your expensive gear before it gets all rumpled and creased. I'm sure dry _clean only_ is in fact not just a suggestion.”

Sherlock felt dizzy and already a little spaced out as he sat up to let John remove his jacket, putting it carefully down onto the opposite bed. His head lolled a bit from side to side, while the room had apparently devised a tendency to swerve (must be because of the nearby ocean). Only when John started to unbutton his cuffs did the slightly unhinged panic lingering on the fringes of Sherlock’s fuzzy mind come to the fore, reminding him that _JOHN MUSN'T SEE_  
!  
Therefore, he vehemently pulled his wrists free, nearly hitting his head on the wall behind him as he bounced back on the mattress with momentum.

“I … I'm cold. I'll keep the shirt on.”

John eyed him suspiciously. “You know, I'm actually not about to take advantage of you or anything.” He clarified, obviously thinking that Sherlock wanted to stay clothed to preserve his modesty.

Sherlock just looked back at him, his face carefully blank.

“I think I still have my shoes on.”

“Oh, dear.” John snorted, then moved down the bed to untie Sherlock's laces – a difficult task, as they had been soaked in dirty salt water, therefore the knots becoming nearly gordian – before removing his black brogues (now stained with ugly watermarks) and damp silk socks (got, what a posh git!).

“Can you take your trousers off yourself, or are you too off your face for that?” John asked mockingly. Sherlock just gave him a look, before wreathing out of his clothes under the duvet, letting his tailored black dress trousers glide successfully to the floor a moment later, arching an eyebrow, smiling triumphantly.

“You know, I honestly might reconsider taking advantage if you look at me like that. There's only so much a man can take.” But despite his raunchy words, John smiled fondly rather than predatory.

“Just imagine the landlord's face if he has to wash our spunk out of these really gross duvets.” Sherlock smirked.

John giggled. “Promises”, he huffed amused.

They looked at one another, and John finally allowed himself, at the end of this up until now quite sodding day, to entertain some hopes that perhaps, just perhaps, he and Sherlock could come to terms.  
Sherlock's translucent eyes were glazed from fever and opiates, his hair even more dishevelled than on the beach, the perspiration showing on his forehead a sign that he had finally warmed up a bit, even as his teeth still chattered from chills. He looked truly good enough to eat.

As if he knew how John was affected by his sight – which was actually very likely, Sherlock being Sherlock – he tested the waters, asking hopefully: “Can I have another one?”

“The recommended daily allowance is six, to be taken in three doses of two at least eight hours apart.” Now it was again Doctor Watson speaking. Sherlock pulled a face.

“Stop pouting, you petulant berk. Rest. We'll talk later.” With that, John went over and sat before the fire, watching the flames lick and flare.

As Sherlock realised that the conversation was halted at least for the time being, he relaxed a fraction, then turned over as his eyelids fluttered shut. The bed was warm and cosy, and the codeine had sedated him quite pleasantly. He tried to look at John's silhouette as long as possible, taking in his rather sturdy features, his strong hand resting on the chair's arm, noticing the orange reflections of the flames glowing in his otherwise dishwater blond hair, but finally the bone deep fatigue overwhelmed Sherlock, and he fell asleep.

\---------------------------------------

When he comes round again, the room lies in darkness. The fire has died down, and what little light the thick curtains had allowed in before has now faded, so it takes Sherlock some moments to realign his perception. He sits up and blinks a few times to focus, until he has to close his eyes again as the blinding beam form the suddenly switched on table lamp hits him full in the face. He groans and turns away.

“How are you?” John sounds close. As if to prove his proximity, fingers touch Sherlock’s face, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“Better.” Sherlock mumbles, still sleepy and tired, but the shivering has stopped, and that has to be a sign of improvement. On the other hand, his clammy shirt is clinging to his upper body in a most unpleasant fashion, sticking to his back, tangled up and around his waist, and the residue of cold sweat makes the sore flesh on his arm burn. The smell of sickness – unwashed male, damp wool, the sharp scent of the Inn’s cheap but effective detergent – has filled the small unaired room, and Sherlock desperately wants to shed his clothes and take a shower, but that’s impossible, because John is still with him, and _JOHN MUSN’T SEE_!

“Are you hungry? I can get you something from downstairs.”

“I don’t think we should anticipate too much hospitality from our hosts, like room service.” Sherlock carefully opens his eyes to slowly adjust his vision to the unfamiliar brightness. It still hurts, but the pounding in his head has stopped.

“Well, probably not. But it would give them something to fluster and fret about.” John sits next to him on the bed, just in t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, as all his outer clothing has to dry after being drenched in rain and spume. Sherlock suddenly remembers the texts John had send him, sparkling with wit and ease when he surely must have been angry with him for leaving – perhaps he’d even been a bit anxious discovering that Sherlock had just set off without so much as a note – but instead of blaming and accusing him he’d opted for light teasing, not to hide his feelings but to channel them into messages Sherlock could relate to. John had wanted him back, not to alienate him, and Sherlock can only imagine how hard this had been, offering apologies, conveying understanding and affection without putting it into words (for John knew that Sherlock would run for the hills if confronted with cheesy love confessions and self-pityingly begging). And all Sherlock had done in response was to tune him out. But that hadn’t put John off, he’d just refused to accept it, ploughing on determined, and Sherlock can only admire John’s certainty that they belong together and therefore will work it out in the long run.

He wants to give something back, wants to transmit that he understands and appreciates, but he's not as brave and bold as John is, he can't just tell him; he'll use his own ways of communication, which are, for most people, actually a bit bewildering, but John knows him, so he will get it. That’s why Sherlock meets John’s mischievous gaze and deviously proposes:  
“You could order something phallic, like eggplants.” If he could only convince John that he’s fine…

“Or horseradish.” John suggests.

Now both of them snicker. Sherlock can’t help it, the idea has a certain appeal.

“You do know about figging, don’t you?” he asks under his breath.

“Yeah, but asking for ginger roots in a place like this will probably only get me called a Paki. Besides, I’m not sure if I will be allowed to put anything up your arse any time soon, so…” John trails of, and as suddenly as the accustomed banter had bubbled up, it dies down again, both men falling awkwardly silent. They sit only inches apart on the small bed, bathed in an intimate circle of warm light, Sherlock half naked and huddled under the mussed duvet, and suddenly it's all too much, too close, their previous camaraderie poisoned by false familiarity, rather poorly masking the underlying current of precariousness, fragility, and something unspoken both dare not to name.

“Well, as you seem above such mere bodily demands, I’m actually starving. Mind if I go downstairs and grab a bite?” John asks incidentally.

“No, no, of course not. Just … you know … do as you please, I’ll manage.” Sherlock hopes that the relief he experiences does not show in his voice.

John gets up and just puts his by now hopefully dry shoes on, but as he looks back down on him, Sherlock’s suddenly very sure that his pretence is quite transparent and John just too polite to call him out on it.

When the door closes, Sherlock almost jumps out of bed and tears off his crumpled shirt and sweaty pants, but when he wants to make his way for the bathroom, he discovers that the B&B belongs to the frumpish category offering a feature which, at least according to Sherlock, by now should have perished from the face of the earth: communal showers on the corridor.

God, how he hates the place!

Fortunately, there are some towels thrown over a rack in the corner of their room, so he takes one large - not too clean but therefore way to fluffy - cloth, and – unwilling to put his filthy gear back on - just winds it round his waist to sneak down the hallway. Then he remembers that, in a place like this, it might be advisable to take his own bodywash and shampoo with him, otherwise he might end up smelling after cheap lavender supermarket soap.

He’s still rummaging through his holdall John kindly carried back from the beach when the door opens behind him.

“Sorry, Sherlock, it’s just me, I forgot my wallet, never mind…” The words die on John’s lips, because now he _SEES_ , and that should never have happened, that can’t be happening, he has to do something, hide it, brush it off, make a snarky remark to push John _AWAY_ , to make him _LEAVE_ , because _HE MUSN’T SEE_ , otherwise he’ll despise Sherlock, condemn him, because he’s weak and pathetic and disgusting and immature and BROKEN, so for fuck’s sake, why can’t John just _GO_!?

Sherlock has frozen. He can’t face John’s expression, so he continues to stare down into his bag, unseeing, until he at least finds the strength to close his eyes. He’ll block out what he sure as hell knows is coming as best as he can, so the abhorrence and contempt and pity and derision will just wash over him; he’ll endure witnessing John’s astonishment giving way to ridicule, and will ignore all attempts to address _IT_ , because there’s no way he’ll _TALK_ about _IT_. Ever.

But then all his good intentions, his firm solutions crumble to dust, as John just asks in a strangled small voice: “God, Sherlock, what have you done?”


	34. Back for Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, both John and Sherlock have to face their fears and demons.

_Come again! Sweet love doth now invite_  
_Thy graces that refrain_  
_To do me due delight,_  
_To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die,_  
_With thee again in sweetest sympathy._  
**\- John Dowland, 1597 -**

Sherlock is momentarily frozen, but then he decides that attack is the best defence he can come up with, so he turns and confronts John with a challenging glare: “What?” he spits.

John hates this. He can't do this. He is totally shit at this. But he has to address it. He can't pretend he did not see. So he inhales, exhales, squares his shoulders, and asks with a voice that is only ever so slightly wavering: “Your arm, Sherlock. What have you done with your arm?”

Sherlock makes quite a show of looking down at his left arm, regarding the burns as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh, this. It's nothing.”

“Did you do that to yourself?” John feels like losing ground. He's falling at 180 mph, unable to brace himself.

Sherlock actually cackles, but there's no humour neither in his tone nor posture. He turns away suddenly, registering how naked and exposed he is at the moment. When he looks back up again, he's blushing, and murmurs in a small voice full of disgust: “This is so pathetic.”

John finally is able to move, and steps forward to very gently touch Sherlock's shoulder, his fingertips barely brushing, but the contact makes Sherlock look at him, really look at him, and his eyes are so full of despair, there is so much vulnerability and shame and self-loathing that John is tempted to just back away, to walk out of this niffy little room and away from this disturbed man, seeking a nice and normal life – a wife, perhaps, kids, a steady job, a mortgage and a house in the suburbs – but then he remembers that he'd had all this, and gave it all up to be with Sherlock. And as this is the place he'd chosen, he has to see it through.

“I can't even remotely understand what goes on in your head, but this, Sherlock, is more than a bit not good. And if you felt the need to do this to yourself, to relief the tension or whatever, I am so very sorry. I let you down. This is all my fault.”

“Stop pitying me!” Sherlock snaps acidly; he reminds John of a wounded animal, lashing out regardless. “I don't want your sympathy. It's not your fault. Do not overestimate your impact on my life.”

“Sherlock, please, if you could just acknowledge...”

“I'm fine!” Sherlock yells.

John just shakes his head. “Apart from taking drugs and shagging strangers?” he tries for a light and humorous tone, but suddenly feels a chill down his spine. This is so very Sherlock, never looking back, no self-awareness, instead defending every single action – silly or dangerous as it might be – as totally necessary and justified, or, if that doesn't work, flatly denying it; and right now this makes John, who'd secretly admired Sherlock for his ability to block out all things unsettling and infringing, sick to the bone.

As Sherlock does not answer immediately, just slowly extracts himself from John's touch and proximity by turning his body away a fraction, John suddenly has enough of tiptoeing around the issue, so he grabs Sherlock's arm and raises it between them for both of them to see, yanking him around forcefully, and Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath as he's confronted with the sight of the lesions on his pale skin, bright red and ugly, some scabbed over, some weeping. 

John is only able to whisper in a pressed and urgent voice: “We can't go on like this.”

“I know.” Sherlock replies way too calm, sounding almost resigned. 

As they both have no idea what to say or how to proceed, John thinks that sometimes actions speak more than words, and reaches out to stroke his fingertips gently over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, in the bright light form the bedside lamp even more prominent than usual. Sherlock doesn't move, but doesn't flinch either, just stares back at John wide-eyed.

“I already told you, I'm terribly sorry for what I did. But I promise, it will never happen again. Can you promise me the same?” John's fingers rest under Sherlock's chin, so that he can't avert his - at this moment nearly translucent - eyes, forcing him to hold John's gaze.

“I won't change, you know.” Sherlock eventually concedes, his voice firm.

“You don't have to.” John declares fondly, tilting his head to one side, almost smiling.

Sherlock casts down his eyes, despite Johns fingers pushing his face up. “I am well aware that most people think of me as infuriating, to say the least. Even my own brother tried to institutionalise me. I know I'm different. Are you sure this is what you want?” He can't bear looking at John, for he has no idea what his answer might be, and - if he's honest with himself – fears each and any.

“Yes. I'm very sure.” John releases his head and strokes his hair back from his forehead instead.

“But what if I do something … a bit not good … something that … really aggravates you?” Sherlock is still not looking at John, but picks at a loose thread on his towel instead.  


“Depends. I might get angry. I can't change overnight, too, you know. But I will never loose it with you again the way I did. That was wrong. There's a distinct line between pleasurable pain and real punishment. I stepped over that. I hurt you. But I swear to god, I've learned my lesson.” He sounds almost imploringly.

Sherlock is by now winding the yarn tightly around his index finger, concentrating on this task as if his life depends on its correct execution.

“I bought cocaine last night.” He states matter-of-factly, finally looking up, checking for John's reaction.

“Did you take it?” John asks, trying visibly to reign in his emotions and to stay calm.

“Of course. What would be the point otherwise?”

“Ok.” John exhales slowly.

“That's all you have to say?”

“What shall I say? Are you still trying to provoke me? To shock me? To push me away? That's not working. Or are you confessing in search for absolution? I can't give you that. I'm sure you know that it's not a very sound habit, but I also know that you indulge in it occasionally. That's who you are. I have to accept that. You seem to have it under control, though?”

“I'm not the man you think I am, John.” Sherlock whispers, his voice low, and rough, and serious.

“No, I know that you are full of surprises, but I also know that you are brilliant, determined, unique, and rather beautiful even when coming down with the flu. And that's why I love you.” John smiles and releases Sherlock's arm, reaching for his left hand instead, trying to interlace their fingers. Sherlock lets him, looking down on their entwined hands.

“John...?” he breathes, more a sigh than a question.

“You don't have to ...”

“I cannot promise that this will never happen again.” It comes out too fast, cutting John short, so he narrows his eyes and gazes intently at Sherlock, who looks forlorn and uneasy. John's not entirely sure what exactly Sherlock is referring to – drugs, self-harm, running off after a fight, perhaps all of it and so much more – but decides he does not care for semantics right now, offering assurance instead: “How about we both try to work on it, and see where we end up, hm?”

He just gets a short nod in reply, but that's all he needs.

“Am I allowed to kiss you?”

“If you must.” But Sherlock flashes him a crooked smile, thereby softening his rather blasé remark, and John takes it for what it is anyway – Sherlock's way to say how glad he is that they are about to reconcile, that he's unsure if it will work, but that he's trying nonetheless; also, that he will probably never be able to react to John's sentimental declarations the way it is expected, at least by most people, but if John's willing to put up with him and his peculiar ways, he would be quite content to spend the rest of their lives together.

“Certainly endeavouring to.” With that, John pulls Sherlock close, and just kisses him, gentle at first, and, as this is met with no resistance, a bit more forcefully, parting his lips and sucking tentatively at Sherlock's bottom lip before brushing his tongue over it, until Sherlock opens his mouth, hesitant at first, but soon he becomes more and more interested in the procedure, and as John's hand slips to the back of his neck to pull him in closer, he tilts his head to give better access, tightening his grip to John's hand to steady himself.

Eventually, they pull apart.

“What where you up to when I barged in on you?” John asks, taking in Sherlock's appearance, looking him up and down. “The Turkish bath and steam room, passing yourself off as an eunuch?”

Sherlock snorts. “Wishful thinking in a place like this. Shower's down the corridor.”

John groans.

“I'd say, lets do a runner, but I'm not sure you're already fit enough to make the train ride back to London. On the other hand, shared bathrooms might qualify as an emergency, in which case your brother...”

“That's how you found me?” Sherlock narrows his eyes.

John just shrugs.

“I hate you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Sherlock sounds genuinely uncomprehending.

“Because I know that if you had wanted to really disappear, I’d never would have stood a chance finding you.”

“You – as usual – totally exaggerate my powers.” His voice has dropped a whole octave, resonating in the small room.

“I honestly don’t think that’s possible.” John smiles, their lips just inches apart.

“I’m not some kind of wizard, John.” Sherlock mumbles, still dismissive.

“No, I know. You’re the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.”

John coughs a bit embarrassed after this statement, then looks away. They are both silent for a long while.

“Sooo…?” Sherlock stretches the word for anything better to say.

John turns his head: “So”, he states. “How about you hop off into the probably slightly dilapidated shower – you like mould, remember – while I grab some dinner, and then we'll meet again in, say, 15 minutes, for necking in front of the fireplace.”

Sherlock eyes the carpet in said place suspiciously, but John swiftly pulls a duvet from the bed and spreads it on the floor. Now it's his turn to arch an eyebrow, and Sherlock's to indifferently shrug his shoulders.

“Might as well...” he sighs as he surrenders.

\--------------------------------------------------------

But 15 minutes later, the necking is delayed, because John insists on treating Sherlock's arm first, carefully applying ointment before wrapping it up in gaze dressing. He has built a fire again while Sherlock had fought an ancient boiler, eventually calling it a draw as he had been able to extract some water from the pipes, but it had been lukewarm at best.

Now he lies naked on the fake chintz duvet, fearing for carpet burns from the synthetic fabric, but the fire warms the otherwise dark room nicely, and John is enthusiastically kissing him, moving down from his mouth over his neck to his clavicle, then even lower, sucking on his right nipple, and Sherlock wonders why he's so turned on by John still fully dressed crouching over him, running his hands through his hair and over his chest, and it is not remotely like their usual encounters, it's kind of … _careful_ … and … _tender_ (words and attributes Sherlock normally despises), so it should be boring, except it isn't; it's actually very, very exciting.

Before long, Sherlock arches up into John's touches, and his hands start to roam John's body as well – tentatively pushing them up under the hem of John's t-shirt, slowly stroking the muscles on his back, holding onto his biceps as John eventually wraps his fingers around Sherlock's cock, stroking languidly, before grabbing John's short hair to pull him up into a messy kiss again.

They are both panting and gasping, faces flushed with arousal and warmth from the fire, and Sherlock positively writhes as John trails down his body again, finally closing his mouth over Sherlock's cock, who's eyes roll literally back in his head as John starts to suck at a slow but insistent pace, taking him in deeper and deeper while cupping his balls with one hand.

“God, John … you don't have to … please, let me … this is not...”

John pulls off, lips wet and slightly swollen, and looks up at Sherlock with dark hooded eyes, but his voice is full of concern as he asks in a husky voice: “Too much?”

“No, just … that's not the way it's supposed to be … between us … is it?” Sherlock sounds coy and awkward, while he watches John, propped up on his elbows.

“It is now, at least tonight.” John whispers, before licking a wet stripe from root to head, and Sherlock shivers and has to close his eyes for a moment. “Ok?”

“God, yes.” 

Sherlock sinks back down onto his back and just savours the experience of having John's mouth on him, and John's hands drawing small circles on the inside of his thighs as he pushes them up and spreads them a bit more to gain better access. John is still careful, and only brushes his middle finger down the cleft of Sherlock's arse and over his twitching hole, as there's no lube at hand. But Sherlock squirms and pushes back against the pressure, so John has to remove his hand, just stroking the inside of Sherlock's knee. Sherlock moans at the loss as John pulls off and nuzzles against Sherlock's pubic bone, pressing kisses all over his lower abdomen and down to his sharp hip bone, whispering: “That's actually … not a very … good idea … well … it _is_ a good idea … but the realisation is … not advisable … as we have … no … lube.”

“We don't need...”

“Yes, tonight, we do.” With that, John takes Sherlock's straining cock in hand and starts stroking loosely, smearing precome all over the hard shaft, making it slick, and the friction is nearly, just nearly excruciatingly too much.

Sherlock all but keens.

“So, what else do you want from me, as this is not on?” John murmurs against the juncture of Sherlock's hip and thigh, inhaling the sharp scent of his arousal.

“Can you … lick me … there … instead?” Sherlock pants, and his face burns – John's not sure if that's from the light the flames cast over his angular features, or out of embarrassment – but he wants this so very much that he's past caring.

“Where?” John teases, but then has mercy and dives down between Sherlock's cheeks, who spreads his legs even wider and arches off the floor as John's tongue touches his hole for the first time. “Here?”

Sherlock can't control his twitching hips.

“Sh, love, calm down, or I'll end up with a broken yaw.”

“Sorry, I'm sorry, but it just so … _god_!” Sherlock shouts as John does it again, and he smirks as he imagines the other guests overhearing them, knowing exactly what they're up to at the moment.

After a short while of just lapping, John has to grab a cushion from one of the chairs to push it under Sherlock's bucking hips to get a better angle without dislocating his neck. Then, he starts licking and sucking in earnest, all the while stroking Sherlock's leaking cock, and the noises he makes are so magnificently lecherous that John thinks he might come just from listening alone.

Soon, Sherlock's cleft is dripping wet with saliva, and John risks to push just the tip of his tongue inside, while pressing Sherlock's hips firmly down to still him. But this proves unsatisfactory, for he can't get deep enough, so he grabs Sherlock's legs at the underside of his knees and shoves them up into his chest. Fortunately, Sherlock catches on, and holds his spread legs up while John dives down again to tongue-fuck his exposed hole.

It's deliciously filthy, and so very tight, an he can push in deeper and deeper while Sherlock moans and pants and breathes his name over and over, begging him for more. John allows his free hand to stroke Sherlock's well muscled bottom, but then he's slightly distracted by the faint red marks he encounters there. He has to pull off – despite Sherlock's quite vocal protest – and look, and is suddenly confronted with the imprint of what he'd done onto Sherlock's pale smooth skin. His heart aches as he very carefully brushes his fingertips over the still visible welts, until Sherlock, who'd stilled and watches him, murmurs: “It's all right, John. It's ok.”

'No, it's not', John thinks, as he bows down to press a chaste kiss at the crease between cheek and thigh, before continuing, 'but I will make it up to you, I promise, this is for you, I want you to enjoy this, and I'll do it over and over again if you will just forgive me for what I did to you.'

But, as John Watson is a wise man – at least sometimes – he prudently refrains from saying these things out loud.

Nevertheless, the mood has changed. Even Sherlock is aware of that, and as pleasurable as John's administrations are, he suddenly knows that this is not how it's supposed to be, so he reaches down and strokes John's hair, while saying: “John, John, please … stop it.”

John raises his head again, looking debauched and dazed but also quizzical. “What is it?”

“Please, stop, and come up here.”

“What? Why? I thought you liked it?” John sounds confused and a little bit offended, but he sits back on his heels nonetheless, kneeling between Sherlock's thighs, as Sherlock lowers his legs and sits up to face him.

“I do like it. But it's not what I _need_.” He looks John straight in the eye and doesn't falter when he continues: “You said I could have anything I wanted. So, I want you to take me, to claim me, to own me. I want you to mark me and to hurt me, and I want to show you that I can take it, that I will take anything from you. I'll endure everything. I need you to wipe my mind clean, I need to be overwhelmed, my boundaries pulled down, to reach a level of satisfaction that can't otherwise be experienced. And only you can give me that.”

John groans and touches him, pushes his fingers trough Sherlock's hair and strokes him, pets him; his eyes have gone dark. Then, suddenly, he pulls – hard – and Sherlock strains his neck and gasps.

“Are you sure that this is what you want?” John's voice is rough and low and dangerous, and Sherlock shivers as he starts to loose himself in the sensation of pain and anticipation and suspense. For a man who always knows the next three moves of his counterpart in advance, this feeling of uncertainty, the expectation of something surprising and new and striking is the sweetest reward of all.

“No”, Sherlock gasps through clenched teeth, “but I'm absolutely certain that I need whatever you'll do to me.”

Hearing these words makes John's heart jump and his cock twitch in his jeans. Ok, if it's supposed to be like this, if Sherlock wants it – needs it – this way, he'll give it to him.  


But first, he slams his mouth to Sherlock's, kissing him hard, tasting blood as their lips crash, and Sherlock moans into his mouth, and opens for his insistently pushing tongue, and then his moans become sobs as John bites his jaw and throat, doubtlessly leaving marks which will show in the morning.

John's cock throbs in his pants, he's so turned on that he fears he'll come at the lightest of touches, and that's why, when Sherlock begs again “Fuck me, John, please, fuck me”, he can't hold back, he simply has to. He can't deny this man anything, who practically gags for it, so, sod decency and sensibility, he'll shag the living daylights out of him.

John never lessens his grip to Sherlock's hair as he manhandles him around, shoving him face down into a chair, his delicious pale bum raised in the air, deftly pushing his free hand between Sherlock's buttocks, stroking his fingers tenaciously along the still slick and damp cleft. Then he hesitates just a fraction of a second, but, of course, Sherlock registers it nonetheless, and growls: “Do it!”, his voice smothered by the cushions, but John hears the urgent plea in it, and finally pushes two fingers in.

He can see the muscles in Sherlock's back tense, but the sounds he makes are full of wanton pleasure, so John quickly moves his fingers in and out a few times, until he feels Sherlock relax around him. Then he pulls out again, at the same time also untangling his fingers from Sherlock's sweaty curls, and almost rips his jeans open, tearing it down to mid-thigh, together with his pants, and finally his flushed hard cock is allowed to spring free. 

The fronts of his pants are soaking wet, as his dick is leaking copiously, which proves very useful while rubbing it up and down Sherlock's cleft, before spiting down onto his twitching hole, experiencing a sudden flashback to the very first time they'd done this; he knows now that that had just been a rage fuelled fuck, undertaken to punish and hurt Sherlock, to wipe the arrogant smile off his face and show him who was in charge, to brake him and see him shatter to pieces.

If John would be totally honest with himself, he would also have to admit that even back then, there had been more to it, underneath all of his frustration; that he had secretly received signals and reacted upon them, that, concealed by all the anger, there had been passion and love and possessiveness for this brilliant, superior, vulnerable, sensitive, lonely, rude and gorgeous man, but back then he hadn't progressed far enough into the realm of sincerity to face the truth: that he had been infatuated with Sherlock Holmes from the first day they had met, that he'd been lost since their encounter at St. Bart's lab, and that he would do anything for him, because he couldn't bare the thought of ever loosing him again.

John has to shake his head to banish his painfully guilty thoughts; right now is not the time to entertain his sepulchre demons. To keep them at bay, he pushes slowly into Sherlock, and it just feels right, fucking him in this dingy room in a stuffy B&B in North Yorkshire. John is suddenly very sure of what he's doing – to himself and to Sherlock. He knows that he wants it – no, needs it – as bad as Sherlock, that they belong together, that they complete each other, and that's why this could really work; it is all John had ever really longed for. With Sherlock he can be true to himself, act out his darkest fantasies without regret, and is rewarded with a willing partner who enjoys submitting to John's wishes as much as John relishes in putting them into action. This is their way, the only way they can be together, and it is genuinely mind-blowing and absolutely right, and everything else will fall into place sooner or later. For now, they are together, they share their wants and needs, and that has to be enough.

Sherlock comes shouting John's name while John bites down hard on Sherlock's shoulder, digging his teeth violently into the taut flesh to muffle his own fervent sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be just one more and final chapter to this story. I feel the need to finish it in 2015. So you just be prepared.


	35. Too far down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rather long and winding road, but in the end, they cope - somehow.

_All I can do is sit and wonder if it's going to end_  
_Or if I should just go away forever_  
**\- Hüsker Dü -**

They are back at Baker Street. It seems to them that they have been away much longer than just a few days. Life has yet get back to normal – well, or to what counts for that state at 221b.

It's awkward, at least at first. Despite – or perhaps because - their confessions and declarations made up north, they both tread very carefully around each other. To the casual observer, they might actually seem more affectionate, more polite, more considerate, which should be quite a good onset for a blossoming relationship...

But then, most people are idiots, who see but don't observe. For the kitchen table is clean, and the fridge empty of body parts, and there's no violin scratching at two o'clock in the morning, and no one's smoking on the sofa; instead, Sherlock is cooking dinner on a semi-regular basis. Of course, John's still doing the shopping, but has stopped arguing with chip-and-pin-machines, and instead frequents the cashiers manned with human staff, and doesn't reprimand Sherlock for scrutinising his typing, and has accepted that it's always him who pays for cabs.

They work two cases, and Sherlock abstains form complaining, despite it's only a three and a five respectively. He also refrains from scathingly commenting on Anderson and Donovan arriving together in Donovan's car, and only looks irritated when a new CSI tries to hand him an overall, renouncing a perfect opportunity to bite his head off.

Lestrade smiles and invites both of them round the pub to celebrate after Sherlock wrapped the second murder up nice and quick. Sherlock actually attending the party leaves most of the coppers flabbergasted, even if he only has a tonic water before insisting on dragging John – who's been deep in conversation with a young female DS (blond, blue eyes, plush bottom and rather lush cleavage) – home to Baker Street under the rather transparent pretence that they promised their landlady to change some light bulbs in her flat. John leaves his pint just half finished, and his hand on the small of Sherlock's back as he steers him through the door gives the crowd plenty to talk about, too.

They have been sleeping together in Sherlock's bedroom since their return, and this night, there's some clumsy fumbling and necking in the kitchen, Sherlock pressed against the counter in the dark. They both come with their hands down each other's pants, kissing frantically.

Well, so, everything seems fine.

At least, according to their special circumstances.

But, truth be told, it all feels a bit … off.

It takes them about a week to acknowledge it. Well, actually, it's Mrs. Hudson triggering it, for she takes John aside one afternoon as he comes in after having collected Sherlock's stuff from the dry cleaner's, asking in a low voice: “Everything all right with the two of you?”

“Yes. Why you asking?” John queries, slightly puzzled.

“Well, it's none of my business, what, with the two of you, but... it's all so quiet upstairs. I was just wondering.”

“Yes, … well … We're … you know...” John trails off as the thought thinks in.

“Mind, it seems a bit … unusual, that's all I'm saying. Not that I'm complaining, but ...”, she slowly shakes her head, “ … it's just not right, John”, she finally bursts out.

“I'm not sure I know what you mean.” But he has to concede he does as he climbs their stairs.

Sherlock, lounging on the sofa, sits up straight when John enters, and pulls his dressing gown tightly around himself.

John carefully puts the suit and shirts in their plastic covers over the back of his chair, then hangs up his coat, before looking at Sherlock, looking really hard, and making a decision.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Of course.” Sherlock answers rather primly, before turning his head to inspect something of immense interest to him over on his desk.

“Could you just look at me when I'm talking to you?”

“Yes, John. Sorry, John.” When Sherlock faces him, his expression is smooth and blank.

“We have to stop … this.” John splutters, and finally, there's a flicker of … something in Sherlock's vacant eyes.

“Sooo ...” Sherlock draws out the syllable, cocking his head. “Have you finally realised that I'm not what you want?”

“Bollocks!”

Sherlock just talks over him, oblivious and aloof, as if John's protest has gone unheard: “It took you some time. You should have realised way before. But, as usual, you don't...”

“Shut up!” It's a plea rather than an order. Sherlock snaps his mouth shut and presses his lips together, looking expectantly at John, who just croaks out hoarsely: “What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?” Sherlock echoes, employing one of his more gruelling tactics.

“I'm just trying to … make it up to you.”

“Why?” The question comes out fast and sharp.

“Because, that's what people do!” John raises his voice, exasperated with Sherlock's deliberately lazy attitude.

“Well, so am I.”

“You never do what … other … people do.” Why it always has to be so excruciatingly strenuous to have a proper conversation with the world's only consulting detective is beyond John's grasp.

“Perhaps I'm just making an effort?” Sherlock retorts sourly.

“Then stop it!” John yells. “It's … quite unnerving.”

“So I've been told.” Sherlock still sounds utterly calm, but his pulse throbs visibly in his throat, just above the frill of his thin grey t-shirt, worn inside out.

John's fists clench, but instead of continuing his rant by working himself up, he turns, walks over into the kitchen, and makes two cups of tea. After about five minutes, he slams a mug onto the coffee table in front of Sherlock, then sits down next to him, cradling his own cup with both hands.

“This is not us.” John sighs.

Sherlock just nods.

“I told you, I don't want you to change.” John murmurs, his eyes cast down onto the floor.

“So, you prefer my old childish, addicted, mercurial, irascible, unhealthy personality to this new, mature, domesticated, sober, and – above all – tidy me?” Sherlock inquires, but he's dead serious, there's no humour or irony in his tone.

“Of course, I do!” John eventually looks up, astonished.

“Then, let me tell you, John Hamish Watson, I also prefer your unstable, grumpy, honest, emotional and irrational true self to this charade you are putting on; whomever's to benefit from it, I cannot fathom. It's definitely not me.”

“But I promised you...”

“You told me I won't have to change. Then why did you?” Sherlock seems at a loss. 

“I just wanted to … be a better person.” John sighs, defeated.

“You were perfectly fine.”

“No, I wasn't. What I did... If I could change ...” John huffs helplessly. “If I could change you, well, it wouldn't change a thing.”

“Don't you think we've been over this matter enough? It was my fault. Everything is always my fault. Because I'm not normal. I'm sick and perverted and unnatural and infuriating and obnoxious. I'm not what you see in me. I'm not brilliant and amazing and unique. I once thought you were the one who's able to look beneath the surface, but, as of late, I've come to the conclusion that you aren't.” Sherlock delivers this little speech in his rapid fire deduction mode, and John suddenly feels very tired.

“Do you really believe this bullshit? Why are you thinking so low of yourself?”

“Because I'm at least strong enough to face the truth.”

John gapes back at Sherlock, shaking his head, his mouth hanging open in utter bewilderment.

“And the truth is that you are … what? Just an unbalanced queer junky, who risks his life to prove he's clever?”

“Now you might be onto something.” Sherlock smiles an eerie smile. He actually looks a little bit mental, but very pleased with himself, nonetheless.

“That's your true self, the one you hide beneath all this cold arrogance and bravado?”

“Correct.” Sherlock fixes John with an unwavering gaze.

“You honestly mean this, don't you?” John sounds shocked. “Right now, you are exposing your very core in front of me? Laying yourself bare, so to speak?”

Sherlock just nods.

“You know what, Sherlock? With all these crazy doubts you've got, I love you even still.”

Sherlock barks out a short rough laugh; his eyes have gone dark. “If it was so easy, why am I so … ?” His hands flutter angrily up and down. “God, this is terribly sordid! You know, I wish for real that I could turn it on and off”, he shouts, flustered, sounding rather lost.

John looks at him, long and hard. “What made you like this?” he finally whispers, his voice ragged.

“John.” Sherlock groans, staring straight ahead. “ _Nothing_ made me. _I_ made me.”

“And the fact that you believe that makes me sick.” John hisses, then grabs Sherlock's biceps, firm, probably bruising, but he doesn't care. “You don't want the emotion, because the taste it leaves is for real. But, let me tell you, nothing's ever real until it's gone. We should both know that by know. And I might be too far down this road, anyway. So, if I can't change your mind, then no one will.” And with that, John pulls Sherlock close, and the hug is nearly suffocating. “If I ever encounter that bastard who convinced you to believe that you are a worthless freak, he'll curse the day he ever set eyes on you.” John even tightens his arms around Sherlock's narrow chest and shoulders.

“John...” Sherlock chokes after a while, “I … can't … breath...”

“Thought you liked that?”

The tension between them dissolves into helpless giggling.

“Actually, that could be quite a long list.” Sherlock admits when he's able to catch his breath again, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe.

“I'm a very patient man.” John retorts.

“No, you aren't.”

“But I can be. For you ...”

Sherlock snorts, then takes a sip of his by now cold tea, and pulls a face.

John grins. “I love you, you know? All of it. The vain show-off, the rude smart-ass, the vulnerable genius, the perhaps just slightly unhinged beauty.”

Sherlock cringes and tries to escape towards his bedroom, but John pulls him back down. “No, you stay and hear me out. I had to listen to so much rubbish this afternoon, now it's my turn to pour my heart out, and you – for fuck's sake – will listen!”

Sherlock pulls his knees up onto the upholstery and curls himself nearly into a ball in the corner of their sofa.

“You want someone with whom you can be yourself, who won't judge you, but takes you as you are?” Sherlock doesn't answer, but doesn't deny it either, so John continues. “This last week has been very quite and pleasant, and the flat is cleaned up, and there's actual food in the fridge. But sod all that! I could have had all this with Mary. But I chose you. And I hope that someday you'll see I've been true. I'll stay that way until. So, could the real Sherlock Holmes please step forward?”

Sherlock just looks at John as if his lover has suddenly grown a second head.

“Was that a reference to pop culture?” He eventually asks hesitantly.

John groans in desperation, then literally hauls himself at Sherlock and kisses him until he's loose-limbed and ruffled and panting: “Bedroom, now!”, a plea to which John rapidly obeys.

\----------

“Tell me what you want.” John breaths against Sherlock's temple.

“You know what I want.” Sherlock whispers back at him. He's pressed against the closed bedroom door, still fully dressed, and John grinds himself against his lean frame, relishing the feel of sharp hipbones digging into his stomach.

They kiss, sloppy and languidly, and Sherlock's mouth is pliant and obliging when John pushes his tongue deep inside, licking almost open mouthed at the corners of Sherlock's ridiculous plush lips. John grabs both Sherlock's bony shoulders and presses them fiercely back against the hard wood. “I want to hear you say it”, he murmurs against Sherlock's jaw, sucking before biting down rigorously.

“Tie me up and fuck me raw.”

Sherlock can feel John grin against his skin.

“God, yes.” John steps back a bit, breathing hard. “Undress.”

Sherlock shimmies out of his dressing gown, letting it slide to the floor, then pulls his t-shirt over his head. His left arm still shows marks, but John took care of it, so the scarring won't be too bad. Sherlock's eyes never leave John's face as he steps out of his pyjama bottoms.

Now he's only clad in his snug grey boxer briefs, which don't leave anything to ones imagination. He's already hard, and there's a damp spot showing where the fabric covers the glans.

John licks his lips. “Delicious.” He reaches out with his left hand and lets it roam Sherlock's pale chest. His fingertips stroke downward, pinching an already peaked nipple, digging his fingernail into the sensitive pink nub, and Sherlock sucks in his breath, but doesn't move or flinch. Instead, he closes his eyes and presses his head back against the door, barring his long throat.

John wants to bite it, so he does, right at the crook of shoulder and neck, flicking his tongue over the pulse hammering beneath Sherlock's skin. Sherlock moans deep in his throat, and John can literally feel his vocal chords vibrating under his lips.

“Get over on the bed.” John is so hard that being confined in his jeans actually hurts, so he unbuttons his fly as Sherlock sits on the edge of the mattress, and starts stroking himself. Sherlock looks down on John's left hand, and now it's his turn to lick his lips, but John just smiles and puts him off with a slight shake of his head. “You are not to touch it. But I'll let you watch.” 

Sherlock whimpers, and his hands fidget, so John pulls off his belt and ties them behind Sherlock's back.

“So as not to lead you into temptation.” John strokes himself for a little while longer, until his fingers are smeared with his own precome. Then he drags his hand over Sherlock's face, who tries to suck the digits into his mouth, but John moves away quickly, closing his fingers around Sherlock's larynx.

“Let's see how much you can take”, John mumbles, before his fingers tighten. Sherlock tries to swallow, but can't, and John feels his Adam's apple bobbing beneath his palm.  


“If you can't trust me now, you'll never trust in anyone”, he whispers, all the while continuously touching himself. As he senses Sherlock becoming calm and compliant in his firm grip, they lock eyes, until John gets aware that Sherlock's starts to flutter shut. However, John prolongs the moment of total control, providing Sherlock with the sensation he needs to surrender and let go. Only when Sherlock comes near the point of blacking out does John eventually releases his lover. Afterwards, Sherlock gulps in air, and his whole body is shaking, but he stays upright, his head held high; John's palm lingers over Sherlock's suprasternal notch until his breathing has evened out.

“I'm impressed.” John hums, before leaning in and gently kissing Sherlock, just nibbling tenderly at his bottom lip.

“Budge up.” Sherlock scoots back up on the bed, and John grabs the elastic of his pants and pulls them down as Sherlock moves backwards. His hard prick is jutting out obscenely from his pale body, the head fully exposed, the slit leaking precome. 

“Lie down.”

Sherlock lowers his upper body onto the mattress, and without his hands to support him, his abdominal muscles clench and quiver visibly. 

John climbs onto the bed as well, spreading Sherlock's legs and kneeling between them. He gives the twitching cock in front of him a few firm strokes, and already Sherlock's balls draw up against his perineum. He's lying beneath John, tied up, needy and exposed, breathing hard through his nose, his lips pressed shut tight as not to plead or demand anything. His hands start to get numb, and resting onto his bound wrists is rather uncomfortable as radius, scaphoid and trapezium bones dig into his lower back, but he just holds still and lets John have his way with him.

John doesn't even take his trousers and pants off properly. He just grabs the lube from the nightstand, slicks himself up a bit, then lifts Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and pushes in without any preparation. Sherlock sucks in his breath and tries to relax, but his whole weight is by now resting on his bound arms and shoulders, and he can feel the muscles in his stomach and torso start cramping. 

John claws onto Sherlock's wiry thighs and fucks him fast and hard, pistolling into him in abandon, and it feels like being split in half; but the look on John's face is priceless - his eyes are screwed tight shut, an elevated smile on his lips - and then he thrusts even deeper, once, twice, before Sherlock feels his cock pulse, spurting inside him. 

John nearly collapses onto Sherlock's chest, and has to brace himself with one hand on the sweaty ribcage. The weight of John's body adds to Sherlock's discomfort, as the pressure onto his spindly arms increases. His shoulders are drawn back tight, and his head has finally slumped onto the sheets, exposing his stretched and bruised neck.

He's still painfully hard, but John doesn't bother touching him, just pulls out when he's got his breath back, gets up, and walks over into the en suite to clean himself. When he comes back, he adjusts his jeans, then looks down at Sherlock on the bed, one leg pulled up, the other bent at the knee and braced on the crumpled sheets. 

“Spread your legs for me, I want to see how much you liked it.” John's voice is dark and demanding. Sherlock has to avert his gaze, flushing a deep crimson with embarrassment, but does as he's told, pulling his thighs further apart, canting his hips slightly upwards as fas as possible in his restricted circumstances. Cum's leaking out of his used hole and onto the mattress, while bruises start showing where John held vigorously onto Sherlock's legs.

“You desperately want to come, don't you?” John asks, sounding actually compassionate.

Sherlock just nods. By now, he's nearly sobbing with need.

“Then beg me. I want to hear you, remember.”

Sherlock swallows, hard, as John circles the bed, coming to stand near Sherlock's head lolling onto the mattress.

“John...” It sounds dire and broken.

“What is it with you?” John impatiently tugs hard on Sherlock's damp curls, twisting his hand to get better leverage. “Talking nineteen to the dozen when no one appreciates it, but right now, you're at a loss for words?”

Sherlock's body thrashes on the bed. 

“I've got all night.” John growls, before pulling Sherlock's hair again in an attempt to still him, to let him focus on his body's immediate needs, to flood his mind with endorphins. In marked contrast to his harsh grip, John's other hand very lightly strokes down Sherlock's sternum, but stops short of his erect cock. Sherlock gasps as his hips lift off the bed on their own accord, pushing into nothing.

The experience is mortifying. “John, please, let me come, please!” Sherlock almost yells, as John continues to tease him without ever touching the spot Sherlock wants him most.

But instead of finally wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's hard and leaking prick, John drops down on his knees and brings his mouth level with Sherlock's ear. “Go on, then. Come.”

Sherlock's hips twitch as he groans in utter despair. John's tongue flicks against his earlobe, before sucking it into his mouth, biting down until he can taste blood. Sherlock squirms helplessly, and then John sees from the corners of his eyes that Sherlock's flushed rigid cock is jerking as a tremor runs through his body from head to toe while he's shooting streaks of cum over his stomach right up onto his chest. 

John steadies Sherlock's trembling body with one hand still holding tight onto his hair so hard he's possibly yanking out some glossy black wisps.

“God, you are gorgeous!” John whispers into Sherlock's ear, while smearing his free hand through the mess on Sherlock's ribs and clavicle, before sucking at the sensitive spot right beneath Sherlock's ear.

John waits until Sherlock stills, only then slowly removing his mouth and hand, wiping his fingers on his jeans as he carefully helps Sherlock sit up. He unties his wrists, gently massaging Sherlock's lower arms to start circulation. Sherlock is sweaty and blissed out and only half aware of his surroundings, so John holds him close, mumbling soothing words of praise into his skin until he feels Sherlock's brain come back online again.

“I need a shower”, he states in a still slightly dazed voice, and John's not the one to argue with him on that point.

\----------

The next day, John finds Sherlock absorbed in dissecting what looks like a dead cat onto their kitchen table, and opts for breakfast at Speedy's (getting a coffee for Sherlock, too; black,two sugars, which he carefully places next to the tiny disembowelled fury body). 

Over the following few days, the clutter accumulates, spilling out of Sherlock's room (no, their bedroom now) into the sitting room, soon covering the desk, sofa, coffee table and mantle piece. On Tuesday, Sherlock gathers up enough energy to redeem his violin, and after that, music floats once again through their rooms in Baker Street – even at the most ungodly hours.

When Sherlock grows a bright orange fungus in John's RAMC mug, they have their first real domestic after Yorkshire, and it's rather liberating to shout obscenities and insults at each other, before making up for it in a heady act on the couch, the fear of getting caught by their inquiring landlady only adding to the excitement (they don't have to worry, though; Mrs. Hudson knows quite well when to keep herself to herself).

John's frustrated that he still has to do all the shopping, but one trip with Sherlock down to Tesco, ending with both of them circumventing an ASBO just by a hair's breadth (apparently, shagging over beer crates in a supposedly empty storage unit is only advisable if said unit is not covered by CCTV) cures him from entertaining fantasies regarding Sherlock involved in more household chores. John's sufficiently punished and has learned his lesson, because now he has to walk 300 yards further down Baker Street to shop at Sainsbury's.

Sherlock never complains about their increasing take away bills, which he pays without batting an eyelid.

Of course, there's always the WORK to pull them through. If the shit falls off the shelf, that's their last resort, a common denominator both need and rely upon. It takes Sherlock's mind of things too complicated or unsettling to deal with, and reminds John of the unique if fragile nature of the man he's dedicated his life to shelter and protect. He does so by ways other people might frown upon, but, if not before, he eventually stopped caring about that on a windswept beach in Yorkshire.

And just like this, they carry on. It's not perfect. John sometimes gets so angry that he punches the walls. Sherlock sometimes stops talking for days on end and just lies on the sofa, chain smoking, but that's still preferable to him vanishing for whole days – and nights – not answering his mobile, until John swears to strangle him himself if no one else had up to now bothered.

Afterwards, he sometimes tells John about what happened. He doesn't have to, though, for John is not an idiot, and can read Sherlock's drug habit in the fresh puncture marks on his left arm, as well as his random encounters in the faint bruises that other men leave on his delicate skin.

It's not fine. Sometimes, it's pretty hard. And a few times, it nearly gets too much.

But somehow, they cope. Because it always gets better, before it gets worse again. Over the years, they both swallow their fill of sorrow and despair. In the end of the day, they see it through, for that's all there is to do; though, sometimes, it's a close call.

After all, for two men who never thought to see their fortieth birthdays, finally retiring to a cottage in Sussex together - alive and fairly stable - is quite an achievement.  


They always knew, even when things were pretty much fucked up, that this couldn't be the end of their whole stupid road, for the darkest hole lies at the end of it. 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! I hope you enjoyed the ride. Well, if I say enjoy...  
> Thanks to everyone for reading, leaving kudos or commenting, especially to minijaxter, skumrig_katt, queenoftheuniverse, juliemagg and snickerdudeles for creative input, stimulating suggestions, good questions, and support when needed. You rock!


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